


Baker Street: Part VI

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [18]
Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alibis, Army, Bacon, Big Ben - Freeform, Bigotry & Prejudice, Boats and Ships, Burglary, Caring, Deception, Dessert & Sweets, Embarrassment, England (Country), Exhaustion, Exposure, F/M, Framing Story, France (Country), Fruit, Gay Sex, Guest-Houses, Gymnasiums, Hair, Infidelity, Inheritance, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, Lancashire, London, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Male Prostitution, Marriage, Murder, Nobility, Northumberland, Paris (City), Politics, References to Jane Austen, Romance, School, Scotland, Secrets, Signalling, Slavery, The Deerstalker Hat, Theatre, Torture, Trains, Victorian, Wales, Yorkshire, envy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 72,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1894. Sherlock returns with a bang, so John is supremely happy (and soon afterwards, supremely sore!). The dynamic duo are back hunting together and facing a whole set of new challenges including a man who may or may not have vanished, a relative with indigestion, a friend who might perhaps been more careful when he gets what he asked for, three cases with links to a famous authoress, a friend whose neighbour has been murdered, some Scottish separatists who are both real and imaginary, a Lemon in Lyme, an arranged marriage, a trip to Paris, and two shocks for Mrs. Hudson! There is also a happy outcome for Sherlock's twin Sherrinford but then the great detective once more puts his life in danger, and John is far from happy.
Relationships: Hercules/Iolaus, Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherrinford Holmes/Victor Trevor
Series: Elementary 366 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts), [vignahara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vignahara/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1894 **

**Interlude: Surprise!**  
by Mrs. Violet Hudson  
_Mrs. Hudson opens the wrong door at the wrong time_

 **Case 184: The Adventure Of The Empty House**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John nearly gets murdered, and Sherlock returns with a bang!_

 **Interlude: In The Wee Small Hours**  
by Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, Esquire  
_The Cornishman gets an early-morning shock_

 **Case 185: The Adventure Of Sweet Dreams**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock's brother Guilford is behaving strangely, even for him!_

 **Case 186: The Adventure Of The Red Leech**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Miss St. Leger asks Sherlock to investigate a prestigious lady_

 **Case 187: The Adventure Of Miss Brontë's Play**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A play is excruciatingly bad – and also claims a life_

 **Case 188: The Adventure Of Miss Austen's Play ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock uses the cruellest of punishments to make a criminal talk_

 **Case 189: The Adventure Of The Father-Figure ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock helps out another of Mr. Godfreyson's molly-men_

 **Interlude: Chem-istry**  
by Mrs. Violet Hudson  
_Once again, Mrs. Hudson opens a door at the wrong(ish) time_

 **Case 190: The Adventure Of Matchstick Mike ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock hunts down a man who vanished from a molly-house_

 **Case 191: The Adventure Of Bernicia Cottage**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A case in John's native Northumberland, where murder is afoot_

 **Case 192: The Adventure Of The Monocled Mountaineer ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherrinford Holmes asks his twin to help him find his OTP_

 **Case 193: The Adventure Of Lemon And Lyme ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Down to Dorsetshire, where a charlatan is loud once too often_

 **Case 194: Vich Ian Vor ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_An attempt by the vile Randall to trick his little brother backfires_

 **Case 195: The Adventure Of Addleton Hall**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock has to break a seemingly unbreakable alibi_

 **Interlude: Stoned And Scared**  
by Sergeant Valiant LeStrade  
_The Westmorland copper has a pain – so Sherlock removes it_

 **Interlude: Big Ben**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Lucifer takes Benji to see his famous namesake_

 **Case 196: The Adventure Of Tristram And Iseult ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The Montagues and the Capulets have nothing on the Gregsons and the LeStrades_

 **Case 197: The Adventure Of The Parisian Peregrination ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Young Tristram Gregson wants his father out of the country_

 **Case 198: The Prisoner of Azkaban**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A shyster seeks to steal an inheritance – and there is a lemon_

 **Case 199: The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-Nez**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock clears Miss Josephine Thackeray of a false accusation_

 **Case 200: Appointment in Samarra**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The detective makes a bad mistake - and worse, upsets John_

 **Interlude: Reflections**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock belatedly realizes his (latest) error of judgement_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	2. Interlude: Surprise!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Not for the last time this momentous year, Mrs. Hudson is more than a little surprised at what she finds behind a door on the second floor of her Baker Street home.

_[Narration by Mrs. Violet Hudson]_

March the twelfth. I had not said anything, yet somehow everyone in the house just _knew._ Three years ago today we had lost our greatest tenant, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This morning Cook had made some crispy bacon just the way that he had liked it; the doctor I knew hated it that way but he had asked for it on this as on the anniversary the last two years. And we all knew (although no-one commented on it) how he kept his friend's room in good order. I suppose that we all deal with things in our own way. 

I had seen Betty going up to meet the dumb-waiter and had then had set about my own list of chores. After checking over the accounts my next job was my monthly look through the bedding of my various tenants to see what if anything needed replacing. The cupboards on the ground and first floors yielded nothing in need of attention, but as I made my way up to the second floor I was sure that I caught a movement on the landing. I frowned; I knew that Betty would be working in the kitchen until she would come up to get the dirty plates, and the doctor had no reason to go round that part of the landing. And none of the other girls had reason to go up there.

I hurried up the stairs but found nothing. I thought at first that I must have imagined it and was about to continue round to the bedding-cupboard when I noticed that the airing-cupboard door was ajar; whoever had used it last must have forgotten to slide the catch over. I moved to close it when I had the strangest feeling; looking down I saw a faint footprint, the front half of which had to be behind the door. 

_There was someone in the cupboard!_

I should I suppose have immediately gone for help but I was righteously indignant that someone had somehow managed to get into _my_ house and _my_ cupboard, so I marched straight up to the door and pulled it wide open. I have seen many strange things over the years - especially living in this place! - but none even came close to what I found when I pulled the door sharply back, a figure trying to conceal themselves in there and looking at me pleadingly.

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes!_

I stared in utter incomprehension. It was definitely him; the hair was as bad as ever and as I stared he raised a finger to his lips. Too late; my instincts kicked in and I screamed out loud!

As he winced I belatedly realized that he had to have been in there because, for whatever reason, he did not wish to see the doctor as he could so easily have done – the doctor who would be out here in seconds after my scream. Botheration! I quickly closed the door and backed away to the landing just as Doctor Watson came rushing out of his room barefoot wielding a walking-stick. Luckily I thought on my feet.

“S… sorry, doctor”, I stammered. “Just…. the biggest spider that I have ever seen! It fell from the ceiling and went into that cupboard so fast!”

I had chosen my line well, as I knew that for all his bravado the doctor was not overly fond of creepy-crawlies. Sure enough he did not go after the 'spider' and took me back to his room to give me a drink that I most definitely needed, if not for the reasons that he thought.

The saints be praised! Against all the laws of what should have been, Mr. Holmes was alive!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	3. Case 184: The Adventure Of The Empty House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Sherlock returns – with a bang!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

In retrospect I only had myself to blame for almost getting killed that day. But then, there were one or two very minor compensations.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Spring came early in the 'Ninety-Four although I barely noticed the greenery sprouting along the length of Baker Street. My heart was still firmly in winter and had been for three years now. And as March the twelfth, the anniversary of that awful day in Nebraska, drew ever nigh, I felt a rising torpor. I dreaded having to get through yet another day full of the memories which still sometimes woke me screaming in my bed – or sometimes of late Sherlock's bed - leaving me unable to get back to sleep.

The fateful day itself started with a shock. I had always considered our estimable landlady to be one of the most well-balanced members of the fairer sex so I was more than surprised when, while getting dressed, I suddenly heard her screaming out on the landing. Fearing that she was under some sort of attack I nearly toppled over as I struggled to pull on my trousers and rushed out barefoot, armed only with my walking-stick. She was leaning back against the balustrade, looking deathly white.

“S… sorry, doctor”, she stammered. “Just…. the biggest spider that I have ever seen! It fell from the ceiling and went into that cupboard so fast!”

I am not myself subject to arachnophobia but I knew that that was a particularly ill-lit cupboard, so in the interests of general species preservation I generously decided to live and let live. I spent some moments with Mrs. Hudson (who I thought looked stunned at such a small thing) until she had recovered, then went back into my bedroom to finish getting dressed.

The other strange thing that morning was the matter of the key. I chanced to glance at Sherlock’s bedroom door and was surprised to note that the key had been removed from its usual place in the lock. Presumably Mrs. Hudson must have taken it for some reason, although bearing in mind her recent shock I would not trouble her as to why just now. I pulled on my coat, sparing my usual fond glance at my late friend’s ridiculous deer-stalker and made a mental note that I had to call in and get some ivory soap – Sherlock’s favourite, and now mine – on my way home.

I was destined not to get that soap.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had three clients that day, two regulars (despite my best efforts, in both cases) and a new one at the daftly-named 'Empty House' not far from dear 221B. This was officially 'Elm Tree House' but a series of short-term owners and some long periods between the same had led some local wag to repeatedly vandalize the name-board and the previous owners – the Basings if I recalled correctly – had either not bothered or not been there long enough to correct matters. The place had an address just above where Baker Street was crossed by the Marylebone Road and was set some way back from the road, almost a quarter of a mile up its own drive.

Mr. Hubert Penistone, presumably the latest in a long line of owners, was my last call of the day. My instructions were to admit myself as the only manservant was, the surgery had been advised, particularly hard of hearing and might not hear my knocking. I duly entered the house and noticed that there was one open door leading off the ridiculously huge hallway. Trying to shake off the strange feeling that I was being watched – I disliked big houses without enough people in them – I walked over to the door and knocked before entering. A man was sat in a large padded swivel chair facing away from me.

“Mr. Penistone”?” I said, advancing a few paces. “Doctor John Watson. You sent for me.”

The man spun round and I swiftly noticed two things, neither of them good. The first and most obvious was the revolver he was pointing straight at me. The second took a fraction of a second longer to register but was far more shocking; the man was the spitting image of Professor James Moriarty. It had to be his brother Kurt. 

I was a dead man walking.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Greetings, Doctor Watson.”

I stared in silent shock. 

“I believe that you met my dear brother James on at least one occasion”, the man said, his revolver unwavering. “Indeed, I believe that you were instrumental in his untimely demise. Your friends have most certainly been cutting a swathe through my family of late. I had thought we were just being unlucky until a certain communication from across the ocean.”

“Communication”, I said dully, cursing that I had my bag in my right hand and not my revolver. He smiled evilly.

“Unfortunately for you your government friends were ever so slightly careless”, he said with a snide smile. “One of my brother’s aides was shot and left for dead but he managed to reach the edge of town, where a Mr. Edgar Forres found him and tried to save him. The man died but not before he had communicated recent events to Mr. Forres who, after almost three years of effort, saved enough to cross the ocean himself and find me. Only then did I realize what was afoot and that you and your late friend were guilty of murder.”

“You are Mr. Kurt Moriarty!” I ground out. He smiled evilly.

“James was six years younger than me”, he said. “My brother stood by me always, despite his business interests.”

“His criminal business interests”, I amended. The man waved an admonitory finger at me. 

“Now now, doctor, you would not want to disgrace yourself in your final minutes”, he said reprovingly. “Any last requests? Apart from stepping out of the room that is.”

“Yes”, I said bitterly. “A time machine. So I could go back to when I saved your brother’s wretched life on that blasted quayside and break the Hippocratic Oath for the good of mankind!”

There was the briefest flicker of surprise on the man's face before he masked it.

“I do not believe you”, he said with a yawn, though he kept his eye on me. “Anyway, enough of this. There is a train leaving Victoria for Dover in just under an hour; I fully intend to be on it and to be back in France tonight. Your journey, I am pleased to say, ends here.”

Before I could think to do anything there was the flash of gunfire. I winced – but there was no pain. Looking at Mr. Kurt Moriarty I saw a stunned look on his face as the gun slowly fell from his hand and an ominous red patch began to spread itself out over his pristine white shirt. 

There was a faint cough from behind me. I span round and saw a man’s figure outlined in the doorway clearly holding a gun. Even in the limited light I knew who it had to be.

“Lucifer!” I sighed gratefully. “Mr. Garrick! Thank the Lord that you are here!”

The figure edged forward, moving slowly into the dusty beam of light coming through the single large window. First a pair of oddly familiar brown shoes came into view, then some dark blue trousers and a familiar overcoat. Finally the man’s head was illuminated; a pipe, an impossibly familiar deer-stalker, and the eyes that I knew so well staring at me uncertainly.

_Blue._

That was the last thing I saw before I lost consciousness.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was on a couch and someone had opened my top shirt buttons so that I could breathe more easily. For a moment I felt confused but then I remembered – Mr. Hubert Penistone, alias Mr. Kurt Moriarty! The gun!

I shot bolt upright and yelped only for two strong hands to grasp me firmly by the shoulders. I panicked only momentarily before I remembered that evil excuse for humanity sitting there slowly bleeding to death because…..

My vision came back and the blurry figure in front of me slowly resolved into something dearly familiar. Craggy features, untameable hair, electric blue eyes, those chapped lips formed into a hesitant smile....

 _“You bloody bastard!”_

Maybe not the best welcome back into my life that I had ever given but there he was, kneeling before me as I lay on the couch. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the self-same man that I had seen blown to kingdom come. Surely I was dreaming? Or was this heaven with my having met my end in 'The Empty House'?

With a massive sob I fell into his arms and he held me close to him. I could feel his heart beating and the doctor in me diagnosed automatically that the rhythm was both a little irregular and above average. Though probably not as much as my own which could not believe that this wonderful man was back in my life. I was an emotional wreck of the worst sort but I could not bring myself to care. Three years of pent-up emotion broke within me like a dam in a storm, and I was glad to break.

Finally what few shreds remained of my dignity eventually managed to get through to me that I was making a complete and utter fool of myself, as well as probably ruining my friend’s shirt in the process. I pulled back, my breath still ragged and stared at him in silence. Wrecked hair and all, I had never seen such a beautiful sight in all of my life.

“How?” I demanded, wondering for a moment if this was some sort of trick and I would wake up Sherlock-less in my own bed again. “How on earth….. I saw it! I saw you die!”

He looked a little ashamed at that.

“Luke is waiting outside”, he said, “and he will take us back to 221B. I will explain all once we are there.”

I wiped my eyes – it was an exceedingly dusty room, I should have mentioned – and pulled myself together.

“Let us leave here!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock poured out the coffee as Mrs. Hudson withdrew, smiling to herself. I snorted as she left.

“Some spider!” I called after her.

I was sure that I heard a snigger as the door closed, but there was also a pistol downstairs so I was not absolutely certain. I looked hard at Sherlock who was trying and signally failing to look innocent. That had not changed either.

“I have been following your every move these past few days”, he admitted. “I meant to introduce myself to Mrs. Hudson this morning but unluckily she opened the door to the very place in which I had chosen to take shelter. Little wonder that she was surprised although she covered it up admirably when you came bravely charging to her rescue. Even more luckily, you were not quite brave enough to deal with the 'spider'!”

I blushed at that.

“It was you who took the key this morning, I suppose?” I groused. “Hell I even _smelled_ you! You still use that same ivory soap, and it made me remember me that I have to buy some.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“You never used to like that”, he said. 

I blushed even more.

“I.... I needed something to hold onto”, I said, staring hard at the floor.

He was kind enough not to push it. I accepted a coffee-cup from him and gave him a thoroughly displeased look. He responded with a full-force kicked puppy look that – yes, I had even missed that, damnation! I sighed in defeat. It was definitely him!

“Lincoln”, I said pointedly.

He nodded.

“It is a long story”, he said warningly.

I sat back, revelling in a main room that now had its rightful Sherlock back in it. My life which had looked set to meet an inglorious end just hours ago was now so good.

“We have all the time in the world!” I said, wiping my eyes.

Our main room was quite dusty, too. Maids in London really needed to pick their ideas up.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Do you remember the case of the unpowdered nose?” he asked. “Because that was where it all began.”

I nodded.

“Kent, back in 'Seventy-Eight”, I said. “Our first Christmas in Cramer Street.”

“You may then recall that our client, Mrs. Fulready, was the sister to the victim Mrs. Garsdale”, he went on, “and that the latter had been the midwife who helped deliver me. I know that since it is you, I do not need to ask for your discretion in this matter as it touches on certain sensitive family secrets that when you relate this tale you will of course ‘gloss over’.”

I nodded, impatient for him to get on.

“What caused my sudden departure was that, five years after that case, Mrs. Fulready belatedly came into some information from her late sister”, Sherlock said. “Mrs. Garsdale had bequeathed her several items from her house including a large and rather ugly dresser which Mrs. Fulready had swiftly consigned to a back room. There it stayed for some five years until she decided to rent out that room and it had to be moved. She was going to relocate it elsewhere but one of her tenants chanced to see it and told her that it was a rare German piece, worth a considerable sum. She therefore decided to sell it and to give the proceeds to a charity that she knew her late sister had supported. A sale was agreed with a local furniture shop and they duly came and removed it. However, while they were cleaning it they discovered a letter taped to the inside of one of the drawers and returned it to her. When she read it she came to me at once.”

“What was in it?” I asked. He hesitated.

“After Guilford's birth”, he said slowly, “my father had suffered from a bout of depression as his business was going through a difficult period. Matters were only made worse when my mother's fifth pregnancy ended in a stillbirth. My father had to spend some time in a sanatorium and, to put it bluntly, my mother sought solace elsewhere. Only for a brief couple of weeks before my father recovered, but as we well know it only takes one time.”

“Yes”, I agreed, wincing as I remembered just how true that old saw was for my good self.

“Not quite what you are thinking”, he said. “The man she sought solace with was someone that we have never met, yet we have come across his family more than once. It was the late Lord Sheridan Hawke!”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“You said that when you met Lord Tobias – his son – you wanted to grow up like him”, I remembered. “Little wonder – _he was your half-brother!”_

He nodded. 

“There is yet more”, he said quietly.

_What?_

“I found all this out just days after you had left for Egypt in 'Eighty-Three”, he said. “I was filled with a sudden hatred for London and just wanted to be anywhere but here, so I embarked on my tour of Wales and Scotland. Late the following year I was in Ayrshire when Miss St. Leger tracked me down with yet another shock. Incredibly after all that I had gone through with losing you and then switching families, there was yet more that had been kept from me. Mrs. Garsdale had apparently left two letters in different items of furniture, the second of which had gone astray. Little wonder that my mother went away for some time alone during the birth. My father's brother, my Uncle Edward who had been working to effect a reconciliation between them, was with her and he knew the truth.”

“What truth?” I asked, still trying to get a grip on my suddenly topsy-turvy world. 

“She had twins!” he said. “My uncle said that he would adopt Sherrinford, my elder brother, and put out that he was an orphan he had taken in. My mother successfully persuaded my father – I suppose I should really say 'Sir Edward' – that I was the result of a brief reconciliation between them that she must have managed after sleeping with Lord Sheridan, who as you know died in 'Seventy-Nine.”

He paused for a moment.

“Miss St. Leger told me all this, and more, that my twin brother was not that far away in Renfrewshire. I ran into him in a small fishing village; he is.... he is blessed with the Sight.”

“Like Mr. Holland, Mr. Hallam and Henderson”, I said. He nodded.

“Like all three of them”, he said. “Because he _was_ all three of them!”

I poured myself another drink. I needed it!

“That was why he went ahead of us to Nebraska”, he explained. “He set the house up so that it had a reinforced basement, and then wired the place so it could be blown to kingdom come when Moriarty and his men rode up. We set up a dummy dressed in my clothes on the porch; I had rigged a small periscope so that we could see when they opened the door, and when they did we detonated the explosives. I had arranged things so that the explosion would be mostly outwards with as little damage as possible to the floor; even so Guilford and his men had to clear away a lot of wreckage before they could retrieve us.”

I stared at him, suddenly sombre.

“Three whole years”, I said trying not to sound bitter. “Over a thousand days; God alone knows how many hours. What were you doing?”

I should have known his answer before he even said it.

_“Protecting you.”_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I knew from Luke that there were six members of Moriarty’s family who, because of their natures, would seek revenge against you if once they knew that you had been involved in their kinsman’s death”, he said slowly. “I am not a killer by nature, but to protect those I love I would go far indeed.”

I shuddered, again reminded of even this great man’s potential for evil. I thought back to that time back in Hampshire when I had nearly strangled my son Ivan's murderous uncle. Sherlock had been right in what he had said back then; every man had his breaking-point.

“I started in Italy with his cousin Luigi”, Sherlock went on. “I held him at gunpoint while I explained what had happened and told him that he had a simple choice. Either he would swear on the Holy Bible that he would never harm you or anyone even loosely associated with you, in the knowledge that if he did I would unleash the full fury of both my family and the British government against them and theirs. Or if he wished to make an issue of it I would offer him justice any way he chose. He chose a duel with rapiers, unaware that it was one of the skills that my father insisted I learn to a high level.”

“That was the end of 'Ninety-One. Three months later I cornered two of his brothers, Matthew and Mark, on a boat. They refused my offer and tried to rush me. I shot them both and made it look like an accident at sea. I suppose by this time you were thinking that poor, innocent Luke was behind it all?”

Damn him, that was exactly what I had thought! 

“I thought perhaps one of his agents”, I admitted. “Mr. Jackson-Giles usually kept him too busy!”

He smiled at that.

“I had to wait until February of ‘Ninety-Three before I could get at the other close cousin, Edouard Dubarry up in France”, he continued. “Like the brothers he too tried to rush me. Contrary to what most people might believe the number of victims who contrive to get shot while walking near a shooting range is surprisingly small, otherwise such places would be swiftly closed down!”

I chuckled.

“I was after Moriarty’s father Louis next but he had a formidable bodyguard. That briefly took me to London just after the royal wedding and I decided to go and see the unveiling of the new fountain in Piccadilly Circus….”

I gasped as I remembered. 

“That _was_ you!” I shouted. He nodded.

“I was fortunate in that I had taken the precaution of being in disguise”, he said. “I saw you and you were looking straight at me. I so wanted to go over and tell you I was alive – you have no idea how much, John - but I knew that if I did I would be endangering my best friend in the world. Turning away from you then hurt me more than anything so far in our time apart, but Luke was right to reprove me for endangering you to any extent.”

Damn dust in the room, making both of us have watery eyes.

“The cold winter just gone gave me the chance to finally get at Mr. Louis Moriarty”, he said, making a visible effort to pull himself together. “Several of his staff went sick and I obtained a post in his kitchens. It was easy to add an undetectable poison to one of his meals such that he would die on a particularly cold day. I offered him the antidote if he would swear on the Bible not to harm you, but he would not.”

“Yet Kurt Moriarty evaded you”, I pointed out. He shook his head.

“Luke has been tracking him ever since his father met his death”, he said quietly. “Although we allowed him to keep his gun not only was it rigged not to work but the bullets were all blanks. I was not prepared to wager the life of my closest friend to capture a criminal, even one as important as this.”

“And now you are back”, I said. “Back where you belong. Oh.”

He looked surprised.

“What is it, friend?” he asked.

“I just realized that I am going to have to explain to the whole wide world how you came back from the dead!”

He chuckled with me.

“It was rather dramatic, having Professor Moriarty push me over the edge of the Reichenbach Falls”, he said. “Perhaps I managed to evade him at the last minute by using some ancient eastern fighting techniques?”

I stared at him silently.

“What?” he asked clearly bemused. 

I gulped. Doctor John Watson's renowned Legendary Emotional Constipation was threatening to overwhelm me but I knew that this was a turning-point in my life. I could do this. Probably I could do this.

“Answer me one question”, I said trying to keep my voice level. Judging from the sharp look he gave me I failed by some distance.

“What?” he asked warily.

“You love me”, I said, “and I love you. We wear each other's rings. Yet we have never..... you know.”

“We have never waved our hands about in a vague manner?” he asked, smiling at my incoherence. Bastard!

I took a deep breath. There was no going back from this. But then I had been his from that first meeting nearly two decades ago. It was time to go that final irrevocable step.

“Wehaveneverhadsex!” I said, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Would you like to?”

I stared at him in astonishment. I had just put myself through the mental equivalent of double Purgatory, and he was talking as if I had asked about a second helping of chocolate cake!

_(That hardly ever happened, by the way)._

“Of course I wanted to, John”, he smiled. “Many times. But it would not have been right, for two reasons. First because of the dangerous life I lead as has recently been more than amply demonstrated. Second - because you never asked.”

I drew a deep breath.

“I am asking you right this minute, you snarky bastard!” I said firmly. “I want you inside of me. Right here, right now, in this very room!”

He raised an eyebrow at me but I had risen unsteadily to my feet and already started to remove my clothing. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, crossing quickly to lock the door before also undressing. Despite that he was much quicker than me, damn him!

“I have waited years for this”, I said, stepping out of my underclothes. “Including three years without you in bed beside me.”

“Randall and Guilford were sure that you would find someone else”, he said, reaching across and gently tweaking my nipples. I groaned in appreciation.

“New rule”, I growled as I lay back on our couch and raised my legs. “No mention of family during sexy times. Get thee inside me, O great detective.”

I flinched as he breached me with his finger – despite my treating so many of Mr. Godfreyson's 'boys' part of me wondered if it were actually possible – but soon he was scissoring me open with both speed and gentleness, having me groaning in ecstasy. 

“Oh my God!” I moaned. I was going to come right there and then....

The bastard chose that moment to grab the base of my cock, making my eyes water in a terrible mixture of pleasure and pain. My head span and I knew just how a volcano felt before it exploded.

“Pleeeeease!” I moaned, suddenly glad that our rooms in 221B were so isolated.

He must have opened me up sufficiently for at last he was pushing in. And in. And in. And in.

I made a noise that would likely have made more sense coming from a walrus mating colony under attack. And at that same moment he managed to change his angle of attack while still hugging me to him, and he struck my prostate full on. I let out a roar, he suddenly relaxed his vice-like grip and I came violently, so blissed out that even my over-sensitive cock did not register with what remained of my frazzled brain. He followed me over the edge seconds later then kissed me fiercely, before leaving what would most certainly be an impressive love-bite on my neck. The room swam around me as I felt absolutely.... glorious!

“Claiming me already?” I gasped.

“You are mine”, he growled. “Mine, John. Always and forever."

“I always was”, I agreed. “I always will be. Always and forever.”

I did not think that I had ever felt so happy, so complete, so....

“That was good”, he grinned. “Ready to see if Captain Sherlock can earn his promotion to Major?”

My eyes widened. Lord, what sort of monster had I unleashed here?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	4. Interlude: In The Wee Small Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. It is (just) the morning after the night before, and someone is not the least bit jealous (definitions of 'not the least bit jealous' may vary).

_[Narration by Mr. Laurence Trevelyan, Esquire]_

It was a cold spring night and I had had a client off Park Lane, just west of Regent's Park. I shall not mention their name but it was not the man's house and I most definitely revised up my opinion of the Catholic Church thereafter! I was walking back to the molly-house (to answer the obvious question, yes; I could have taken a cab but if I was close enough to my base I always walked. It helped get rid of any smells and saved me having to take a bath later). 

It was only when I turned the corner into Baker Street and passed a certain house that I realized where I was: 221B. I looked up and sighed; Mankind had lost a great man in the great detective.

It was about five in the morning from the distant dawn light so I was surprised when the front door opened and the landlady Mrs. Hudson peered out. I stepped backwards at once; I knew full well that she had a pistol and was not afraid to use it, as more than one of my clients and several of the 'boys' at the house had spoken of her with the deepest respect (terror).

The lady looked hard at me, then smiled.

“You came to warn Mr. Holmes that time”, she said.

“Yes”, I said. “I am sorry that he is no longer with us.”

Her silence was a little too long. I stared curiously at her.

“I can keep a secret”, I said. “Especially in my job.”

“I know”, she said. “I can trust you. Mr. Holmes is back.”

I stared at her in shock.

 _“How?”_ I asked incredulously.

“You will have to wait for Doctor Watson's next exciting adventure to find out!” she grinned. “Though given what London is, I expect that everyone will know of his return soon enough.”

“If not sooner”, I agreed. “Thank you kindly for telling me.”

She nodded and went back inside. I stepped back and looked up at Mr. Holmes's window wondering how on earth....

How on earth was there a figure that looked suspiciously like an English town doctor I knew being pushed up against the curtains like that? For that matter, why was the person doing it wearing a deer-stalker.....oh. 

_Oh!_

“Lucky bastard!” I muttered as I went on my way.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	5. Case 185: The Adventure Of Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Sherlock and John settle comfortably into their new routine - or rather Sherlock settles comfortably into John, who is sore in areas he did not even know he had been possessed of! And their first case back together (as in together together) involves a really annoying member of Sherlock's family whose name, most unusually, does not start with the letter 'R'.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Oh Lord we had had sex!

All I can say is thank the Lord that one of the vile Mr. Kurt Moriarty's last acts on this planet was to summon John on a Monday, which at the time was the only full day my love then worked at the surgery. Because that meant we had six uninterrupted days of glorious, wonderful, energetic sex! Every time I hesitated and asked him if this was too much he would actually beg for more! Although perhaps taking him right in front of the window had been a tad unwise; my sex-frazzled brain had remembered a touch too late that with the light directly behind us our silhouettes would be clearly visible to anyone passing outside. Fortunately it had been about five o' clock in the morning so we had gotten away with it. 

_(As I would find out in a later conversation with a certain Cornish fisherman friend of mine of whom John was for some reason less than enamoured, actually we had not)._

I also owed the equivalent of at least a quarter's rent to the wonderful Mrs. Hudson who took to only making us food when we rang for it, one bell for a cold snack and two for a hot meal, then pushing a red card under the door to indicate that our food was ready outside. The woman was an angel and she, her niece and her staff were all wonderfully selective of hearing over those heady days. Also there seemed to be even more bacon than usual which was excellent, as I definitely needed the energy!

We had sex everywhere – and I do mean everywhere! - although some places were easier than others. The only exception was the fireside chair, not just because it was an antique and might not bear the weight of two grown men but because I knew that I could hardly look across at any future clients without thinking.... well, that! We were definitely getting a larger bath as that was wonderful sitting there with my taller frame embracing his, and equally definitely never doing it on the floor again as rug burn really _hurt!_

I suppose it was three years being without the man I loved but for some reason I felt that I had an almost boundless energy those heady days. Of course we could not have sex twenty-four hours a day; John needed at least some rest the poor old fellow, but six hours was enough for that. Though I was gentler with him on the final Sunday as I knew he could hardly go into work if I had 'kept it up' so to speak. Even so he limped out of our rooms the following day in very poor shape, and I heard him moaning at each of the stairs as he made his long, slow way down to the street and a painful cab ride. He had a smile on my face a mile wide, though, and I intended to keep it there. I had my man back and nothing was going to take him from me ever again!

No, not even the mortification of receiving a one-word telegram from Mother which read: 'Finally!'

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had wondered if after a suitable rest after a long day at work John might be up for another six days of hedonistic bliss. Although when I had woken him up with a hand-job this morning he had had to bury his face into the pillow and scream into it; he was it seemed still a bit sensitive in some areas. No stamina, these older men. 

Unfortunately my hopes were shelved with the arrival of a guest shortly before I was expecting the love of my life back. My cousin Luke.

“Ye Gods Sherlock, open a window!” he chuckled as he sat down by the fire. “This room reeks of sexually satisfied male!”

“John was very satisfied”, I agreed. “Several dozen times. Once quite close to where you are sitting!”

He shook his head although I could see that he was pleased for me. But his presence here could not be a good thing; Luke of all my family would not have called at such a time unless it was important.

“How is Benji?” I asked. Our mutual friend and Luke's occasional reason for him too leaving his house with a limp of a morning had had three of his family ill recently, and had lost his fruiterer's job to boot when the new shop owner had taken a dislike to him. I had however managed to get him a job as a porter with the Great Eastern Railway with the help of Balin and Balan Selkirk who worked for that company, and that had suited him perfectly as he lived almost right next to Liverpool Street Station. Plus his wife was pregnant again, with what would be the tenth addition to his dynasty, which would mean that Luke would have to write off a couple of days around August to help the behemoth work out his post-christening angst.

“Much happier”, my cousin smiled. “Bet is over her illness after that medicine John gave her. You were right about his old job, unfortunately; it was because the new owner was a racist swine.”

“Such a pity that those noisy and over-running road works outside his shop are going to start soon”, I said insincerely. “Plus all those totally unpredictable delivery problems that he is about to encounter. What brings you here today?”

“Guilford is in hospital.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“With what?” I asked. 

“Someone tried to poison him.”

“Please tell me you do not want me to find out who”, I sighed. “He has annoyed so many people with his follies over the years that it will be half the country!”

“I do not need you to find out who poisoned him”, he said.

I just looked at him. He sighed heavily.

“ _Mother_ wants you to find out who poisoned him”, he admitted. “And I feel sorry for poor John if you use that look on him!”

“I have other and better ways of keeping John in line now!” I smirked.

“Sherlock!”

I sighed. I did not like Guilford but he had (if only because Mother would have hunted him down afterwards) helped with my and my twin's recovery after the explosion at 'Reichenbach'. Even if he had been careless enough to leave a fellow alive who might indeed have gotten the information to the late Doctor Kurt Moriarty had we not had several agents posted around the latter. Should Guilford's slapdash approach had led to the loss of my beloved John – who had sent me an amusing telegram earlier bemoaning the lack of suspension in the average London cab – then my idiot brother would not now be worrying about either a poisoning or Mother. I would have ended him myself!

“I take it that he will recover?” I asked. My cousin nodded.

“He said that he felt ill immediately after dinner”, he said.

That did surprise me.

“Dinner at home? I asked. “Surely everyone ate the same? We both know how Mother is about not making any exceptions when it comes to food, even if Torver is currently identifying as a cannibal.”

Luke shook his head.

“The cannibal was last week; now he is King Charles the First”, he said. “I suppose a beheading to add to the realism would be too much to hope for. No, Guilford had apparently been worried over something or other although he would not say what it was, and as a result he ate very little. Although of course he had a full helping of dessert!”

“The day that Guilford turns down dessert will be the day the sun rises in the west!” I snorted. “Still, if he ate less overall it cannot have been the food unless there was something that he ate in the main course, and I sincerely doubt that.”

My cousin nodded.

“I talked with Father and went through a menu with him”, he said. “He confirmed there was nothing that Guilford ate that was not also eaten by at least two other people; we both know that Torver always eats a full helping yet he is fine.”

“More is the pity!” I muttered. “What did the doctor say?”

“He thought that it was some sort of mild acid”, Luke said doubtfully. “I cannot see Guilford eating anything like that. He did say however that it had to have been eaten within a few hours of the cramps coming on, and could not have been as far back as lunch.”

“Did Guilford go anywhere that afternoon?” I asked.

“Only to the gymnasium.”

I stared at my cousin incredulously. Had I mistakenly wandered into a parallel universe where such strange statements actually made sense?

“I think that my hearing must be going”, I said at last. “I could have sworn you just said that our brother Guilford would be seen inside the building commonly known as a gymnasium.”

“I think that he may be after one of the ladies who work there”, Luke grinned. 

Ah, that made more sense.

“Did he take a cab?” I inquired. My brother shook his head.

“Not our own Praetorian”, he said. “The new one that opened just two streets away from the house.”

“Yes”, I said carefully. “But he still did not take a cab?”

He looked at me curiously.

“It was a fine day”, he said. “I presume that he decided to walk. Mother has been telling him to do more exercise.”

I thought for a moment, then remembered something that my stepbrother Campbell had once said.

“Can you find out something for me?” I asked.

“Sure. What?”

“I want to know if he took the most direct route home.”

“Why would he not have done?” my cousin asked curiously.

“He may indeed have”, I said. “But if he did not, that may provide part of the answer.”

“Which is?”

“Which if I am right”, I said, “is going to mean that he does not need to worry about being poisoned again. _Because Mother will kill him!”_

“Or worse, read him one of her stories!” Luke chuckled.

John was getting to be a bad influence on him too, no matter how right he was over that (approximately one hundred per cent).

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was less than an hour later that I heard a slow trudge on the steps and grinned evilly. The love of my life was back from a hard day's work. I moved over to the door.

John walked in the room then gasped as I grabbed him, wrested his bag away and slammed the door while pushing him back against the wall next to it. He looked at me in surprise.

“Clothes off!” I ordered. “Now!”

“Sherlock....”

“I have waited three long years for this”, I said removing his tie and starting on his shirt buttons. “Yet the eight hours that you were away from me today seemed just as long without your gorgeous body, now that I know I can have it every which way I want. You, naked, _now!_ ”

He nodded quickly and hurried to undo his trousers and pants before almost falling over as he tried to remove his shoes and socks. I had his upper garments off by this time and once more pushed him back against the wall eliciting a further moan, although I could see that at least one part of him was most definitely happy with proceedings. I reached down and grabbed his cock and his eyes widened in shock.

“Oh my God!”

“No, just your Sherlock”, I said calmly. “I wanted you naked on your hand and knees by the fire, so I can be inside the man I love as soon as possible!”

He nodded again and half-stumbled as he knelt down and presented himself to me. My day had not been totally fruitless; I had visited a certain shop a little further down Baker Street where I had been able to purchase several jars of unguent for various purposes. Lucky shopkeepers they, as I would be using them a lot in future. 

John was visibly trembling as I positioned myself behind him and ran a finger teasingly around his rim. He let out another delicious noise as I breached him.

“What _is_ that?” he gasped.

“I got it from a rather useful little shop down the road”, I said, working my finger in and eliciting several more pleasured moans from the beautiful man I had at my mercy. “It is called 'Right-Of-Passage' and is meant to make the experience even more intense.”

“Says the man with the Herculean cock!” John gasped.

“An interesting analogy”, I mused as I widened him even more quickly than usual (I was definitely getting more of this stuff). “Especially considering that particular hero had so many male lovers as well as female ones.”

I had managed to get my own cock out with my other hand, my innate flexibility being put to good use at long last, and rubbed it teasingly against his entrance. He actually whined and tried to back onto me but I teasingly pulled back before positioning myself at his entrance. Then I thrust straight in.

“I am going to have to find some sort of gag for you if we do this again”, I said conversationally as his gasps went right off the scale. He either nodded or was having some mild fit, hopefully the former, but when I reached round and laid the lightest of touches on his own now fully erect cock he went off like a rocket, making me silently thankful that I had placed the sheet on the floor beforehand. For all her toleration of such things I doubted whether our estimable landlady would have been pleased with her rug being treated in such a way.

John was moaning because while he had achieved his own release I was still hammering away inside him and, most cruelly, deliberately aiming to avoid his prostate. But his cries now sounded as much pained as pleasured, so I changed my angle and went for it. He froze for a moment as I came violently, then slumped gracelessly onto the floor taking me with him. We lay there for some little time.

“We had better get up”, I said reluctantly. “They will be bringing dinner up in less than twenty minutes.”

His breathing was still much faster than normal and he did not immediately answer. When he turned his head to stare unfocussedly at me I immediately kissed him.

“Time for another go?” he asked hopefully, actually batting his eyelashes at me. I sighed. He really was incorrigible!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We had time. Besides, it was his own damn fault that we had to do it again twice more before we went to bed. He really had to stop looking so damn tempting, or Major Sherlock would be applying for that next promotion sooner than expected!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

At breakfast the following morning I told him about Guilford's poisoning and that I would be making some inquiries into it. He looked distracted at first – I may or may not have woken him by sucking him off and having him shuddering in my bed while screaming for mercy again – then froze as he realized what that meant. _Another long and bumpy cab ride!_

Fortunately among my many purchases at the special shop had been some jars of what they called 'Morning After' a most wonderful unguent which cooled on contact with the human skin. So the only problem John did have was getting past our landlady and her daughter who were both wearing smirks as wide as the River Thames! I would have commented but I could see a certain firearm through the door into Mrs. Hudson's room, so I wisely refrained. Besides, she supplied me with bacon!

The Central & West London Gymnasium lay about half a mile from my parents' home and, with only a small park in between, Guilford would easily have been able to cut across that and reach home almost as fast as if he had taken a cab. Yet despite his assurances to Luke that he had indeed walked (which same had been telegraphed to me that morning) I was still suspicious. Guilford rarely walked anywhere and his most intense form of exercise was opening his current bag of sweets!

“You believe that he went somewhere else?” asked someone who was solely responsible for my recent and uncharacteristic cattiness. I had not smirked at his careful movements all morning, although the way he kept pouting suggested that I may have come close on perhaps the odd occasion or five.

“The route home would be a pleasant one if he had indeed walked through the park”, I said, “but yes, I think he must have gone somewhere else. Perhaps the people at the gymnasium might have an idea.”

Inside the building we were met by one of the trainers, a muscled young blond fellow called Mr. Edwy Archer who was wearing a vest that was at least one size too tight. He also looked at me in a most curious manner as I asked my questions, although from John's unhappy growling (which he later said was a mild and inexplicably sudden cough), I could perhaps guess why.

“Your brother Mr. Guilford”, he said. “Sorry I am to say it sir, but he was not much of an addition to our noble establishment. He spent most of his time in the small restaurant talking to one of the ladies there, a Miss Palsgrave. She is not in today, so of course neither is he.”

“I have to tell you”, I said gravely, “that around the time he was in your 'noble establishment' my brother was poisoned.”

The young fellow's eyes widened in shock.

“I very much doubt that it could be anything he had here”, he said, a little defensively I thought. “We only serve healthy foods in the restaurant and I know for a fact because the restaurant manager Mr. Knollys told me that he did not order anything to eat. He would definitely notice someone like that.”

“My brother did not use your exercise facilities?” I asked. 

John was now almost on top of me, looking at the trainer in a way that was bordering on murderous. The fellow actually took a step back from us both.

“He had a locker here”, he said, eyeing John warily. “Come to think of it, that was one odd thing. We have small, medium and large lockers, and he paid for a large one.”

Aha! I knew that Mother was wont to search all our rooms without warning, so likely this was where my brother kept things that he did not want her to see. I needed to see inside that locker even if there was the distinct possibility - this was Guilford, after all - that the contents might scar me for life.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

John and I stared incredulously at the huge locker (seriously we could both have fitted in there!). I had not expected gymnasium clothing or anything like that, but....

“It is like a sweet-shop!” John exclaimed. “Sixteen, twenty.... twenty-four jars in all!”

“He could not store them at home so he told Mother that he was taking up exercise and got her to pay for his storage here while he chatted up one of the ladies”, I said with a slow smile. “She will _kill_ him when she finds out!”

“How could she ever find out, though?” John pointed out.

“Well, the next time he pulls any sort of prank on me I shall be sending Mother an anonymous letter”, I said. “I must also get my photographer friend Mr. Adams to come down and take a picture of this, just in case he decides to move it for some reason. But this does not explain the poisoning.”

“Maybe it was just stomach-ache?” John suggested. “Just a fraction of this would surely cause such a thing.”

I shook my head.

“We need to look elsewhere”, I said. “Let us go.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The gymnasium was at the end of a row of shops in Hector Road and there were more the other side of the street where there was the cut-through that led to the park and my parents' house. I scanned them all then chuckled.

“What is it?” John asked.

I pointed to a small confectionery shop, the dreadfully-named 'Sweet Dreams'. 

“My sweet-toothed brother did not travel that far out of his way after all”, I smiled. 

“All that sugary goodness”, John sighed. “I will be hard put to resist it.”

“Oh you will be hard put soon enough!” I teased, delighting in the way he was flushing bright red in the middle of a north London pavement. “But do not worry – I will be devoting the rest of my life to making sure you work off any extra pounds and ounces.”

It was wrong of me to enjoy the fact that he had to hold his doctor's bag in front of him as he scurried after me. Probably wrong. Whatever.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

'Sweet Dreams' (oh dear!) was currently being run by an unprepossessing young dark-haired fellow of about twenty-five years of age, who looked at us curiously over the top of his round-framed glasses.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen”, he said politely. “I am Mr. Martin Bushell. How may I be of assistance?”

“Two things”, I said. “Pleasure first. Do you have any acid drops?

His face fell.

“I am afraid that that is one of the few things that we are currently out of stock of”, he said regretfully. “As you can see we carry an extensive range, but a gentleman came in last Saturday and purchased a nearly full jar which was our entire stock. May I offer you something else, perhaps?”

I looked at him curiously.

“You obtain your supplies from Crowland's?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. They are a high-quality business and we have never had any complaints. Is something wrong?”

I thought for a moment.

“I noticed that the board outside said that the shop is registered to a Mrs. Bushell”, I said. “Is she here?”

A shadow passed over the young fellow's face.

“My mother retired recently after a bad fall”, he said heavily. 

“You inherited the shop?” I asked.

“Yes. I have a older brother Matthew but he had never shown any interest in the business, working as he does as a scientist. Is there a reason for all these questions, sir?”

He was clearly on edge now. I leaned forward.

“I have to tell you”, I said slowly, “that my brother was the sweet-toothed gentleman who has been probably your best customer in recent weeks. I consider it quite likely that the reason he is currently recovering from an attempted poisoning in hospital is that the contents of one of the jars that he purchased from here had been adulterated.”

The man turned deathly pale. I reached into my pocket and extracted the small bag of acid drops that I had taken from the jar in Guilford's locker before leaving.

“I am not a betting man”, I said slowly, “but I would make a wager that when I take these to a scientist friend of mine and have them tested, they will yield a small amount of poison.”

“But that is impossible!” Mr. Bushell protested. “Crowland's has an excellent name and they would never.....”

He stopped and somehow managed to go even paler.

“As I am sure you have just worked out”, I said, “someone very clearly poisoned these sweets after they left the manufacturer but _before_ they reached your shelf. My second wager would be that your brother has access to this shop and that he was the one who poisoned your stock, thinking no doubt that a run of customers suffering from indigestion after eating your stock would give you a bad name. It was his bad fortune – or perhaps London's good – that my brother grabbed your entire stock of acid drops although I might still be inclined to check your other jars, especially of anything with a strong taste.”

He nodded, looking shocked at the way things had turned out, and we left.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Mr. Matthew Bushell was confronted with the evidence of his actions and in return for a slightly reduced sentence agreed to say which other confectionery jars he had adulterated (three in all). John later purchased me a pound each of the four different types of barley-sugar that Sweet Dreams stocked, two of which were very rare; the case had been worth it for that alone, I thought. I also purchased him his favourite chocolate buttons (two whole pounds of the things), for as I said we now had all sorts of exciting ways of working that sort of thing off. Then I took him home to demonstrate.....

I had Guilford's locker photographed and then cleared by taking all the jars to my Boys' Home, leaving him in dread that Mother had somehow found out his secret cache. He must have eventually decided that it was someone else for the following year he tried another prank on me whereon I posted that photograph to our parents' house. 

At least the hospital was nearby!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	6. Case 186: The Adventure Of The Red Leech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. A Shakespearian quote comes into play over the defrauding of one of the most famous names in England. Plus there is more sex.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was still March when we had an unexpected but welcome guest at 221B: Miss Clementine St. Leger. Unusually Mrs. Hudson's maid Abigail had a tray of coffee and cakes ready which meant that our landlady must have known of our guest's advent. 

Our visitor arrived in a sea of almost glowing red-auburn hair – it was curled this time – and almost threw herself at my friend. I felt uneasy at once and bit back an instinct to growl at her. Sherlock was _mine!_

All right there may have been one very small growl judging from some raven-haired personage's annoying smirk. Damnation, I had even missed that!

“Knew they'd never keep you down, Holmie!” our visitor grinned, giving me a knowing look. “Now bags I the jam cream fingers and I will tell you why I'm here.”

Of course she was getting the jam cream fingers. _We both valued our lives!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Your lounge-lizard of a brother wants my help”, our visitor said, wiping cream away from her mouth. It was, I thought quietly, unfair that she shared my friend's ability to down all that sugary goodness yet never seemed to put on weight. I wondered how long a session with Sherlock I might need for that enticing chocolate meringue......

 _She_ was smirking at me now! I suppressed a scowl (contrary to what someone later claimed, I did _not_ pout!) and focussed my attentions on that meringue. It clearly needed seeing to especially as our guest was already on the second jam cream finger.

“One of the ministers in Rosebery's excuse for a government has got himself into a complete mess with a Foreign Power”, Miss St. Leger said, “and he needs my help sorting it all out. So as I have a matter on hand which could benefit from your detective prowess I said that I would help him if you helped me.”

I sighed. Now that annoying lounge-lizard was getting Sherlock to work for him without even asking! Still at least we were being spared his baleful presence, and I remained hopeful that Sherlock would one day let me order those man-traps.

“I am at your service, my lady”, my friend said, shaking his head at me for some reason. “Especially after your help in removing the stain on society that was the Moriarty family. What do you require?”

She sat back.

“It all seems very mundane”, she admitted, “but in my business I often find that it pays to act on hunches. A case of money going missing.”

Sherlock looked at her shrewdly.

“Obviously there is more to it than that”, he observed. “From whom is this money disappearing?”

 _“That_ is the problem”, she said. “Lady Anastasia Wellington!”

I whistled through my teeth. After the great victory at Waterloo (yes, the one which had caused me no end of trouble thanks to my traitorous grandfather), the Iron Duke had remained a social force, undamaged even by his venture into politics and his opposition to the First Great Reform Bill. When last year one of the lesser London newspapers had tried to besmirch the current duke, the great man's grandson, the public's reaction had been vitriolic. The newspaper's offices had been attacked a number of times and they had been forced to close down.

“John?” Sherlock asked, breaking into my thoughts. “You are the social pages expert. Do you know of this lady?”

I did not resent the teasing tone of his voice for once. I was still just glad to have him there to tease me. Miss St. Leger would have to have been blind not to have worked out just what our relationship was at this point, Even with the windows having been opened to their fullest extent the whole day, the place reeked of sex. That and the fact I still winced every time I moved on my cushion. 

I might add that I was sure I had caught Miss Thackeray paying her aunt money and grumbling about certain men being so predictable. Plus the maids kept giggling every time they left our room. But it was all worth it in the end - even if it was my end!

“She is not a descendant of the great duke”, I said wishing both that my cushion had more padding and that some blue-eyed bastard could cut with the smirking some time this decade, “her lineage descending from his youngest brother Edward. He had three sons and a daughter; however all but the eldest son of the same name died young; she is the younger Edward's grand-daughter and the only surviving member of her particular branch of the family. I suppose that that is why she has become closer to Duke Henry than might otherwise have been the case; she moved from Ireland to London two years ago. She lives in one of the duke's lesser London properties in Marley Square and is about twenty years of age.”

Miss St. Leger smiled at me.

“Perhaps I should employ you in _my_ business”, she said, with something also perilously close to a smirk. “Yes, she will be twenty-one this August. The duke is a sound enough fellow for his class although he well deserves the nickname of 'Spurgeon' that he has acquired from his great girth. I have reason to believe that someone may be stealing from his cousin's estate.”

“How did you become aware of this?” Sherlock asked.

“I was following another client who had business with the estate”, she said. She produced a small sheaf of papers and placed it on the table. “This lists all the dealings that I deemed suspicious. The duke allows three people access to his cousin's financial dealings, so if this is an inside job as I think it is then one or more of them must be involved. Full biographies of each are included.”

Sherlock did not reach for the papers, and instead looked hard at her.

“Why?” he said at last.

“Pardon?” She looked confused.

“Why?” he repeated. “You can gain nothing from this unless the family grant a reward for identifying a criminal in their midst. Although he is a decent enough fellow at least in providing demand for London's tailors, the current duke is not renowned for his philanthropy.”

She smiled.

“Were I to pass these facts onto the family they would be dismissed as a mad woman's wild ravings”, she said, not seeming the least bit put out by that fact. “You, supported by your esteemed biographer here, have considerable public standing, especially since your escape from the jaws of death – and yes doctor, I am one of many who cannot wait to read how it all happened. Indeed I am sure that the owner of the 'Strand' is already looking at seafront houses in the South of France, in anticipation of all those juicy sales! I also think that this is one of those cases where justice and the law may well require different approaches, something that you specialize in.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “We shall investigate this case for you, madam. I think that it may prove to be quite interesting.”

It was.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The next day we set out to investigate the three people in charge of Lady Anastasia’s financial affairs.

“Does the lady live alone?” I asked as our carriage weaved through the ever-busy London traffic.

“No”, Sherlock said. “She has a companion, a girl from her home village in Ireland who she grew up and went to school with over there, Miss Maureen Flanagan. Then there is also her step-brother from her mother’s short-lived and rather dubious first marriage, Mr. Sean Ellis. Not a blood Wellington but, according to Miss St. Leger's excellent notes, very close to her. Plus of course a whole bevy of servants.”

“Which of the three suspects will we look at first?” I asked.

“The only other Irishman in the household, a fellow called Mr. Benton van Dyke”, he said. “Possibly the least likely of the three as he was comptroller of the entire Mornington Estate for some years and only recently took a role in Lady Anastasia’s affairs. He could have enriched himself much more easily in his former post – the duke is rather lax in his financial affairs, according to Miss St. Leger - so there seems little motive in his case. Still, one never knows.”

I nodded. We had had another fiercely passionate coupling early the previous evening but after my poor state during our recent case Sherlock had insisted on being much more gentle with me afterwards and this morning, and the loving he looks he had kept giving me since had made me feel all.... gooey inside. I was losing so many Man Points lately.

Whatever.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

After an irritatingly bumpy cab ride made doubly irritating by someone's not-smirk every time I uttered a small and very manly exclamation of surprise, we traversed the several thousand miles to where some bastard had moved Louisiana Avenue in Highbury. Here our quarry lived with his family, a wife and two daughters. Sherlock pulled me into a small café where he mentioned to the waitress that he was trying to find an old friend of his father, a Mr. van Dyke. The girl did not know of the fellow but she advised that we ask at the flower shop on the corner because (and I quote) ‘that Mrs. Allison knows everything about everyone the nosy old cow!’

Two decidedly indifferent cups of coffee later – I did not risk the chocolate cake as it looked both tired and soggy - we repaired to the flower shop where we met the aforementioned Mrs. Allison. I have to say that persuading her to talk about one of her fellow denizens of the area was not in any way a problem. Persuading her to _stop_ talking on the other hand - unless it was to simper annoyingly at someone who was not me.....

 _Of course_ Mrs. Allison knew the van Dykes _very_ well. Mr. van Dyke – his mother had for reasons best known to herself named him after her favourite character from a story about _Americans_ of all things! – was a _lovely_ man and he worked for some rich lady in the city. Most certainly famous, Mrs. Allison sniffed, as he tiresomely refused to talk to anyone (i.e. her) about it. Mrs. van Dyke was a housewife with _somewhat questionable_ dress sense who looked after their two young daughters; she also penned a monthly article for a local paper and did good works for the church even if her flower-arranging skills were _only so-so_. They lived at number twenty-three and kept a large golden retriever called _Kitch_ of all things, but their garden was deemed _tolerable_. Their maid however really needed to wash her hands before work.

There was one particularly interesting piece of information amid the gossip (and the simpering!). Mrs. Allison noted in a tone that not the least bit jealous that the family had recently had the front of the house repainted, as well as some structural work done. Such things were I knew far from cheap and I wondered where the money to fund it might have come from. However Sherlock had a possible answer to that.

“Miss St. Leger states that Lady Anastasia is very generous when it comes to Christmas and birthdays”, he said as we made our escape from Mrs Allison’s monotonous drone and coquettish looks. “Her companion, stepbrother and servants all receive generous gifts, and Mr. van Dyke’s birthday falls three days after Christmas Day so he would have had access to quite a sizeable sum.”

Nothing there then, I thought. Although a possible point to Lady Anastasia; I knew how some more tight-fisted members of society would oftentimes only give one gift if the unfortunate recipient's birthday fell too near the Lord's day.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was but a short journey to our next destination as Mr. Peyton Hafford lived in nearby Crouch Hill, and thankfully my backside seemed over the worst of its sufferings (or maybe this second cab had at least some suspension). This time Sherlock took me to a small office which, according to a rather dirty brass plaque, was run by a small fellow by the name of Mr. Leonard Fitzherbert whose offices were not so much mean as positively Scrooge-like. This was surprising as shortly before we had arrived Sherlock had informed me that Mr. Fitzherbert owned a whole set of shops and offices in this part of London. He was about ten years older than me, of a decidedly unkempt appearance and in my humble opinion did not seem prosperous enough to afford even a decent set of clothes.

Sherlock looked at me for some reason. I told myself that I had not missed that at all!

He looked at me again and I had to fight hard not to roll my eyes in exasperation. All right, all right, I had missed it! Let a man have _some_ pride, for goodness sake!

“Greetings Mr. Holmes”, Mr. Fitzherbert beamed at my friend. “And of course your illustrious medical scribe Doctor Watson. How may I be of service to you gentleman?”

We both sat down (I rather the more carefully of the two of us).

“I would of course fully understand if you are unable to comply with my request”, Sherlock said, “but I wish to know as much as you can tell me about one Mr. Peyton Hafford.”

I must have been getting better at reading people because even I spotted the briefest glimmer of unease on the fellow’s face.

“The gentleman who rents the ground floor at number two, Findon Street?” he asked. “He moved in some seven years ago, and has been no trouble as far as I am aware. I am afraid that I cannot say exactly what he does – I take little direct interest in my tenants’ actions unless they are of a criminal nature and try to respect their privacy – but he pays his rent punctually, unlike some.”

“Yet there is something about him that worries you”, Sherlock said shrewdly. “May we know what it is?”

The fellow hesitated.

“His hours”, he said at last. “He is rarely in his rooms from what my other tenants tell me, and the days he visits vary rather more than one might expect. I felt inclined to make at least some inquiries at that and discovered that hardly anyone else has been seen entering or leaving the establishment, which is a little odd. He does not appear to be the sort of person who would rent a place from someone like myself, although I am probably damning my own name in so saying.”

“Like banking, your line of business must require a certain reliance on assessing the true nature of people that you deal with and seeing beyond appearances”, Sherlock observed. “Talking of that, can you please tell us what he looks like?” 

“I have never actually met him”, Mr. Fitzherbert confessed, “although I know from what his fellow tenants say that he is in his forties and a recluse. My dealings have all been with his daughter Matilda who requested rooms on his behalf and whom I do meet from time to time when she comes to pay the rent. She is about twenty years of age but looks and dresses as someone older, which I also find curious. She told my secretary that her father had suffered a great trauma in recent years that had made him completely withdraw from society, but that of course they have to make a living. Although she did not say how.”

“Does the shop have living accommodation?” Sherlock asked.

“Not as such”, Mr. Fitzherbert said. “The first floor is rented separately and accessed by its own entrance from Beaulieu Mews, or rather a path from that _cul-de-sac_ which terminates behind the shops. I have a very nosy young lady in there just now who works at one of the underground stations, and I am sure that if there were anything seriously amiss she would know and would rush to tell me; we all know what people are like. The ground floor does possess a small room at the back with a single bed in it but that takes up half the floor-space; I doubt that anyone could live there for any length of time and I would certainly know if they were so doing through Miss Alexander. I do not of course encourage gossip but like yourself, I am prepared to reward the suppliers of information which I later find useful.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“Thank you Mr. Fitzherbert”, he said. “You have been most informative.”

 _Had he?_ I wondered. The gentleman looked at us curiously.

“I would think that _your_ presence, Mr. Holmes, suggests that there is indeed rather more to my tenant than meets the eye”, he said shrewdly. “May I ask as to whether you expect Mr. Hafford to be moving out any time in the foreseeable future?” 

“At this moment I would say the odds are in favour of your having to find another tenant sooner rather than later”, Sherlock said enigmatically. “Possibly even within days; It might be best if you had someone lined up ready. I cannot be sure as my investigations are still ongoing, but I promise that I will keep you informed as to how matters proceed. Good day sir, and thank you for your time.”

Some coins changed hands and we left.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“What makes you think that Mr. Hafford will soon be moving out?” I asked as we took a cab back into the city. “Do you suspect that he is the thief?”

“Yes and no”, he said.

Sometimes I wondered why I had missed him. Then he edged closer to me in the cab and nuzzled the love-bite he had bitten into my neck that morning, and I sighed happily.

That was why. Because I loved him more than life itself.... ow!

The cab chose that moment to hit a particularly large bump in the road and I yelped in surprise, Manfully of course. _And I did not believe that innocent look of his for one minute!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The third of our three main suspects, Mr. John Masham, lived outside the capital in Elm Park in Essex. Our cab-ride was followed by a train journey and a further cab-ride before we reached our destination. To my surprise it was a school - and not just any school.

“Mr. Masham is a teacher”, Sherlock explained as we waited to be shown into the headmistress’s office. “He was Lady Anastasia’s teacher in her final year in Ireland and came over with her. I believe that she, or at least her family, stood as referees to help secure him a job here. He was a friend of her late father which is the reason that he was one of the people entrusted with her finances.”

“Maybe unjustifiably?” I wondered.

“We shall see”, he said. He looked at me with a strange glint in his eyes. “Your presence today will be particularly valuable.”

Annoyingly it was that precise moment that the secretary returned so I could not press him as to what he meant. Brooding somewhat (it was _not_ sulking!) I followed him into Miss Ivy Haverstock’s study.

Miss Ivy Haverstock was a Character, and I use the capital quite correctly in this instance. Her school was justly famous; people across London were desperate to get their daughters into St. Etheldreda's. It was not just the quality of the education but that everyone knew that she ran the tightest of tight ships. Indiscipline on behalf of any pupil was grounds for immediate ejection plus the loss of that term’s fees. Nor did either money or status procure you the advantage that they would certainly have done almost anywhere else; prospective parents had to sit through an interview with Miss Haverstock first and if she did not like you (as one minor royal couple had found out to their shock the year before) then your child did not get in. And that was before she had interviewed the actual child!

I felt certain (and possibly a little smug) that this was one member of the fairer sex upon whom Sherlock’s charms would fall like the proverbial seed on stony ground. However, I did not have the opportunity to test that theory, as the moment she saw me enter behind Sherlock, her face lit up.

“Doctor Watson!” she beamed.

I immediately felt nervous. Had I treated her or one of her relatives at some time in the past, and if so should I be remembering her in some way? Fortunately Sherlock came to my rescue.

“Miss Haverstock is a great admirer of your works, doctor”, he said with a knowing smile. “Thank you for agreeing to see us at such short notice, madam.”

“Not at all”, she said. “Your fame resounds across London and the capital is agog to hear how you escaped from the clutches of Death himself.”

“I am sure that the good doctor can be persuaded to forward you a signed copy of his masterpiece before it reaches the general public”, Sherlock said. “We are here today on business, I am afraid. I wish to ask you about an employee of yours.”

Her face darkened.

“Mr. John Masham”, she said. _“Indeed!”_

Men have surely been hung for less than was in that single word. She took a deep breath.

“Normally I would not even have considered employing a” – she took a deep breath before uttering the awful word – “a Gentleman for a post in my little school. But Mr. Masham's references were excellent and I had another teacher have to withdraw because, most incredibly in this day and age, her husband insisted that she should not be in _paid employment_.”

I suppressed a smile at the ill-concealed scorn in her voice.

“Hence I decided to give the gentleman a trial for one term” she continued. “Initially things went very well, but of late….”

She stopped.

“What has happened to concern you? “ Sherlock asked. “Rest assured that the doctor and I will be discreet in any inquiries that we pursue in this area.”

She nodded.

“He is becoming unreliable”, she said sounding almost angry. “As I am sure you can appreciate, gentlemen, teaching is a profession with a relatively low number of set hours, but my staff are expected to put in many extra hours of their own time for the good of the children. I demand a lot of everyone who attends this school, children _and_ staff.”

_(I feel that I should add at this point that Miss Haverstock’s school was known to pay its staff well above the standard rate for teachers, and despite that fact that the school had not then been in existence for that many years, several of her alumni had already gone on to great success in their chosen fields of work. I did not doubt that she could have charged double her current fees and have still filled the place; she had had several offers of money to expand but had refused them all)._

“Mr. Masham has not been fulfilling these requirements?” Sherlock asked.

“He has not”, she said sorrowfully. “It is fortunate that when I extended his contract it was only for the rest of the school year, and so expires this summer. The way that matters stand, I am afraid that I am not inclined to renew it.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“If the case that I am investigating turns out as I expect”, he said, “I feel compelled to advise you that Mr. Masham is likely to either resign in order to concentrate on certain other matters that will require his absolute attention, or that he will once more give you his full focus. I would expect a resolution of matters one way or another quite soon, most likely in around a week's time.”

“Thank you”, she smiled. “That is most helpful.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We said goodbye to Miss Haverstock, my having confirmed that I would indeed send her a signed copy of my ‘Lazarus work' when it was complete, and returned to Baker Street tired after a long day’s travelling.

“What next?” I asked, after a delicious dinner of kippers from the ever-dependable Mrs. Hudson.

“I wish to talk with one Miss Jane Grey, a maid at Lady Anastasia’s house”, he said. “She has her half-day off next Monday and always travels down to visit her grandmother in Putney. Miss St. Leger says that she dines each time at the Slice Of Life restaurant in the High Street so we shall intercept her there and obtain a flavour for the household and the other two suspects.”

“You suspect Miss Flanagan or Mr. Ellis?” I asked, surprised.

“I suspect everybody!”

I chuckled at that.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

After our first week together, Sherlock had (belatedly) realized that even someone in early middle-age like myself could not be expected to cope with non-stop sexual gratification (the fact that I had taken a full minute to get out of the cab after one journey had alarmed him somewhat), and he was now a little gentler with me. I was allowed some recovery time after he had had his way with me the evening before and he had been gentle with me this morning as well, so the only problem that I had had to face was a certain landlady, her niece and servants all of whom were apparently trying out for the British National Smirking Team!

I was thus able to walk fairly normally the following Monday as Sherlock and I decamped across London to the border with Surrey and the small town of Putney. The Slice Of Life was rather better than its dreadful name had implied, being situated right on the banks of the Thames, and we ordered some coffees before making ourselves comfortable.

It was about half an hour before a plain-looking young girl in a pale blue smock entered, and ordered a cup of tea and a single cake. Typically she sat about as far away from us as was physically possible. Sherlock gestured to me so we got up and walked over to her.

“Miss Jane Grey?” he said politely.

The girl looked up in surprise and a curious expression crossed her face.

“I am the consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and associate, Doctor John Watson”, he said, his voice low and even as if he felt any sudden movement or exclamation might have startled her. “May we be allowed to join you?”

She clearly recognized his name and…. Lord not again! There it was, the simpering look he got from over half of our species. Damnation, he was old enough to be her father!

_Was he smirking? He was, damnation!_

“I read in the newspapers of your great return”, she said, her eyes alight as I definitely did not pout. “You wish to talk to _me?”_

She sounded frankly incredulous. We seated ourselves at her table and Sherlock ordered a plate of cakes. He waited for the waitress to return with them before beginning.

“I wish to have your opinion on certain matters involving your place of work”, he said helping himself to a cream puff which he proceeded to get all down his chin. I handed him a napkin and he smiled his thanks at me, which enabled me to ignore the doe-eyed girl opposite who was staring at him as if he were the Second Coming. “Of course I am fully aware of your loyalty to your employer but it is she over whom I am concerned. I understand she has both a friend and a relative living with her, and in connection with a certain matter that I am investigating – I am absolutely certain that I can rely upon _your_ discretion in this matter – I would truly value your opinion on that lady and that gentleman.”

She visibly preened (at least that stopped her simpering, if briefly).

“Mr. Ellis is certainly that all right”, she said, blushing a little as she spoke. “Handsome as the devil, that’s what Miss Flanagan calls him, but a perfect gentleman in his manners. Not at all grasping like _some_ as I could mention; my mistress wanted to make a settlement on him because he has no money of his own but she had to work really hard to get him to accept it.”

 _But apparently not hard enough_ , I thought as my pen flew across the page. I caught the slightest twitch of Sherlock’s lips and knew that he was thinking much the same.

“Now Miss Flanagan” - the maid’s tone changed abruptly - “she's another kettle of fish. The Red Leech we all call her because that's her favourite colour, as well as that of her hair which for some reason she dyes to make even redder. Always wanting money for this dress, that new pair of gloves or the other ticket to the theatre. She has some money of her own I think, but she lives well above her means.”

I sketched a quick outline of a cat next to my notes. Sherlock, who could not possibly see what I was writing from where he was sat, looked pointedly at me and I blushed. He was doing it again!

“I see”, he said with what definitely a knowing smile. He hesitated before continuing. “My next question is a little indelicate perhaps, so I will fully understand if you prefer not to answer. In your honest opinion is Lady Anastasia _demanding_ of these two people?”

That clearly caught the maid off-guard and I could see her trying to frame an answer that would defend her mistress.

“They do get days to themselves, sir”, she said carefully. “Not regular days like the staff do – Lady Anastasia is _really_ generous to us servants – but provided that she does not need them for something special she does not mind where they are. And she never takes them with her when she has to go see the duke.”

“Does His Grace ever visit the house?” Sherlock asked.

“As far as I know he only came that time I wasn't there, sir”, she said. “Florrie – the between-maid and _such_ a terrible gossip you would not believe – said they had argued because the duke said she had sharp teeth, which I thought a funny thing to say. Her teeth look normal enough to me.”

“'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child'” I quoted. “From 'King Lear', the Shakespeare play.”

Miss Grey looked at me, clearly impressed. I may or may not have preened a little.

“Lady Anastasia likes the good things in life”, she admitted. “But she's a good mistress.”

“Hmm”, Sherlock said apparently deep in thought. “One final question if I may be allowed. Does your employer spend more time with her friend or her step-brother?”

“Oh definitely Miss Flanagan, sir”, the maid said firmly. “No doubt about that.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Thank you for your time and patience, Miss Grey”, he said. “The waitress will box up the cakes that you do not wish to eat so that you may give them to whomsoever you wish. I am sure that I need not impress on you that you not discuss with anyone at the house the matters that we have talked on here today?”

“Of course not, sir!” she said, looking shocked.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I waited until we were in our cab heading back to Baker Street before I said it.

“You do know that she will tattle to every servant in the house that she has had tea and cakes with the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” I said.

“As well as his equally famous medical scribe”, Sherlock chuckled. “Indeed. It is one of the things that I am counting on.”

I stared at him in confusion. 

“Are we going to the house?” I asked. He shook his head.

“In the circumstances it would be better for Lady Anastasia if we broke the bad news to her away from her house”, he said. “We shall invite her to Baker Street.”

“But are you not afraid that the criminal will escape?” I asked.

“Somehow I do not think that is an option”, he chuckled.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

However, events the next day seemed to have proven him wrong. We received a telegram from Mr. Fitzherbert informing us that the few personal items in Mr. Hafford’s offices had been removed and that his daughter had reported him missing to the local police as he had not returned home the previous night. In the days that followed strenuous efforts were made to locate him but all that was found was a ring of his, close to the soon-to-be-opened Tower Bridge. It seemed that he had either fallen into the river or had been attacked and his body thrown in subsequently. Even more mysteriously Miss Hafford herself had since left her own lodgings, leaving her landlady a note to say that she had been called away 'on a matter of business'. It was all very odd.

Sherlock’s inquiries yielded one other piece of information during this time. Although she would not come into control of her own finances until she was full thirty years of age, Lady Anastasia had on reaching eighteen years of age been allowed to choose one financial adviser for herself while the current duke had chosen the other two. Mr. Hafford who had been a minor landowner near her ancestral lands in Ireland had been her choice. Sherlock seemed pleased at that for some reason though I did not see why. I would have asked him but he most unfairly distracted me by pulling my trousers down and jerking me off right in front of the fire. _Most_ inconsiderate of him. If I could have managed some of those Word things I might have had something to say about it.

I _might_ have!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was May when Lady Anastasia Wellington finally came to visit us in Baker Street, with her companion Miss Maureen Flanagan. The two girls bore a passing resemblance to each other especially in the red hair they shared, though Miss Flanagan was taller and thinner as well as much less well-dressed. Sherlock bade them both sit down and smiled in welcome.

“Ladies”, he said politely, “I would like to tell you of a certain case that has come to my attention lately in which I think you would find something of interest. It concerns fraud and theft at the very highest level of English society and crimes for which, should the case ever come to court, at least one of the perpetrators would be guaranteed a long time in jail. More likely both.”

I noted that Miss Flanagan looked decidedly nervous but Lady Anastasia was as cool as someone of her class should be. She nodded graciously and Sherlock continued.

“It concerns a certain high-born lady who much to her chagrin is prevented from accessing the full wealth of her estate until she reaches what she considers to be a great age”, Sherlock said. “However she is as resourceful as certain members of her family have proven in the past, if to rather less noble ends, and finds a way around these obstacles. Being allowed to appoint one of her financial guardians she persuades a close friend to partake in her ruse.”

“Most interesting”, Lady Anastasia said, while her friend's face was increasingly matching the colour of both ladies' hair. “Pray continue.”

“The ruse involves the friend pretending to be the daughter of the chosen guardian”, Sherlock went on. “This friend, ostensibly acting on her father’s behalf, herself takes lodgings and then rents a small shop some distance from the house in which she places a few personal items. The unseen guardian is portrayed as a complete recluse, removing any need for them to be seen by the shop's neighbours. The friend makes sure that the rent is always paid on time and that her neighbours hear – but do not see – Mr. Hafford talking to his 'daughter'. A few forged signatures means that the noble lady and her accomplice are successful in slowly removing funds from her estate so that the lady can live in a style that she considers fitting. Even if she is robbing her future to pay for her present.”

Lady Anastasia nodded but this time said nothing.

“However, the lady then learns to her horror that a maid in the house has been questioned by a famous consulting detective”, Sherlock said with a smile. “She acts quickly. The non-existent financial guardian disappears, apparently drowned if we are to believe a ring identified by his so-called ‘daughter’ who also most conveniently vanishes. The villains must lie low for a while but surely the fuss will soon die down.”

Lady Anastasia sighed heavily.

“Such a case would require a strong degree of proof against so noble a lady in society”, she said, but I could hear the tremor in her voice.

“Proof such as the friend being identified by the landlord who rented the building to a lady whom he would recognize under another name?” Sherlock asked dryly. “Proof such as the same woman who went to the police as Miss Matilda Hafford but could easily be placed before those same policeman under her real name? Proof such as the fact that a certain Mr. Peyton Hafford is actually alive and well having emigrated to the United States some four years ago, and is prepared to provide a sworn statement to that effect? Proof such that Mr. John Masham has been acquiring of late to the detriment of his own job, as he works for the estate that you value so little?”

Lady Anastasia's eyes narrowed in anger.

“That money is _mine!”_ she hissed and I shuddered at the naked greed in her voice. “My family have no right to keep it from me!”

Sherlock sat back.

“I intend to inform His Grace of my findings”, he said firmly. “Doubtless he will take his own measures to curb your excesses, Lady Anastasia. You Miss Flanagan I would expect him to dispatch back to your native Ireland so you are as far away from your partner in crime as possible.”

Lady Anastasia shot to her feet.

“Maureen!” she barked. “Come!”

She swept out of the room in a flurry of crinoline and was gone, her friend scurrying after her. I stared at Sherlock in amazement.

“The Red Leech was in fact plural”, he said with a smile. “Perhaps one day you will be able to publish this case.”

I really hoped so. The thought of laying open that greedy scion of a noble house to public scrutiny was a most pleasant one.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Duke Henry was, unsurprisingly, less than pleased to find that he had been deceived by his relative. Miss Flanagan was indeed dispatched back to Ireland and Lady Anastasia was sent to live in a small establishment in the country with a much-reduced allowance which, although it did not exactly reduce her to penury, made her pay for her crimes to some extent. Sherlock spoke up for the other, innocent members of her household such as Mr. Ellis, Mr. van Dyke and Mr. Masham, and the duke found places for the first two elsewhere on his vast estates while Mr. Masham continued on at St. Etheldreda's. I understand that when the duke died some six years later Lady Anastasia tried to persuade his brother and successor Duke Arthur to allow her back to London but that he flatly refused, as Sherlock had forewarned him of such an approach.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	7. Case 187: The Adventure Of Miss Brontë's Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. John had always reserved a special loathing for Victorian melodramas, one of the era's few abject failures in advancing civilization – but this play came with a real-life murder!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I was a _good_ person. Really I was. Which was why I waited until we were both in the cab and headed back to Baker Street before I gave way to uproarious laughter.

“That was _so_ bad!” I guffawed. “I have seen many plays in my time, but I can honestly say that that was the worst by a long stretch!”

Sherlock smiled, amused at my merriment.

“We certainly seemed to hear a lot more of the prompter's voice than any of the actors'”, he admitted. “And perhaps the choice of music did leave a little to be desired.”

“A little?” I said incredulously. “Little Betsy singing 'and I heeeear, o heeeear the Execuuuuuutioner's Soooooong'? Even by the standards of modern melodrama which are not that high to begin with, it was _dire!”_

“Not forgetting the shock revelation of the man in the cupboard who fell over a broom and swore an oath during his dramatic entrance”, Sherlock agreed. “Yes, I think that this particular work of art will not be gracing the London stage for much longer. I can but hope we never see its like again! Poor, poor Betsy!”

He raised his hand to his forehead in mock horror and that set me off once more. I could not know at the time that this was that rarest of occasions, a time when Mr. Sherlock Holmes would actually be wrong about something. But I would soon find out in one of the strangest cases that we had ever encountered. And the hilarity of the case's start was tempered by the fact that it all ended with someone actually hearing the executioner's song as they faced the long drop to hell.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Although my writing was by this time such that I only had one regular day a week at my surgery (and boy, had I been grateful for _that_ given how much time I had spent horizontal recently!), I did when asked cover for other doctors and it was one such day that ensued the morning after the nightmare before. I was still smiling that morning as I remembered the atrocious 'acting' that I had been subjected to. I was also a little sore as someone had done a most effective method of waking me up by forcing me onto my front and ploughing me into the mattress until I had nearly blacked out. From sleep to orgasm is most definitely an effective (and highly pleasurable) wake-up call, whatever my aching limbs said. What did they know?

The blue-eyed genius was still in my room – our room, as I thought of it now – when Mrs. Hudson appeared with the breakfast tray. During Sherlock's 'absence' she had a dumb-waiter fitted, a small lift enabling hot food to be carried swiftly from the kitchen so the maids did not have to balance trays up the stairs; we had insisted on paying for half as we were on the top floor of the building and would use it most. Now that I came to think of it she only rarely brought in our trays.

“You went to see that play 'The Executioner's Song' last night, did you not gentlemen?” she asked setting out the plates.

I was distracted from my reply by the walking dead that staggered from my room at that very moment. Mrs. Hudson bless her did not even bat an eyelid – not even at the fluffy bunny pyjamas which as always had me smiling - but she had a coffee ready for him which he accepted with a guttural growl and downed straight away.

“We did”, I said. “It was truly dreadful!”

“It was for someone else as well”, she said. “They were found dead after the performance!”

I stared in shock. She passed Sherlock his second coffee and he drank it straight down again, this time managing a sound that was almost human. Impressive for him.

“It is in the 'Times' this morning, she said. “The man was found in one of the back rooms of the theatre. It was only when they were cleaning the place afterwards that someone found him and tried to wake him and.... well.”

“It was a truly dreadful play”, Sherlock said suddenly and miraculously (for only two cups) coherent, “but I doubt that it could actually have claimed a life, if only because dying of tedium is relatively rare otherwise the benches in the House of Commons would be full of corpses! Thank you for bringing the matter to our attention, Mrs. Hudson.”

She smiled and left us to our food. I was fairly sure that I heard a slight snigger as she shut the door behind her. I might have been surer, but there was a pistol somewhere downstairs so I was not.

“Does the newspaper say how the man died?” Sherlock yawned, coming round the table to look over my shoulder. That sort of thing annoyed me when anyone else did it but him draping himself over me like a lazy cat was endearing.

“They found a dagger nearby”, I said, ruffling his overly long hair as he nuzzled dangerously near the love-bite which thankfully my dressing-gown had hidden from Mrs. Hudson (or perhaps that explained the snigger that I had not heard). “They are carrying out a _post mortem_ today so more will be known then.”

“I love you.”

My vision blurred. I was far from emotional but the simple ease with which he said those few precious words took my breath away. 

“Love you more”, I muttered. “Even when you are the walking dead of a morning.”

I felt the change in him rather than saw it. Something inside me trembled.

“Your first client is at half-past nine, are they not?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said, “as always.”

“The cab journey takes an average of seventeen and a half minutes, does it not?” he purred.

I seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “Yes!” I squeaked (it was I should add a manly squeak).

He chuckled darkly and sauntered off back to our room. I may or may not have fallen over my feet in my haste to follow him (all right, I did).

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

What was left of me arrived at the surgery with barely a minute to spare and in very poor shape, but with a smile on my face that had our secretary Mrs. Fotheringay shaking her head at me. Thank the Lord for the cushion that I now kept permanently on my surgery chair!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I should probably have mentioned an event that happened during the Hiatus in the painful chapter of that time, but given what eventually came of it I decided to mention it here instead. In late 'Ninety-Three two of the surgery's top doctors, Julius Sharp and Constantine Hucknall, had decided to establish their own practice in the city. That in itself was not unusual nor was the fact that their patients would mostly prefer to go with them; such things were deemed acceptable. What had caused the trouble in this instance was that they had used their access to the surgery's records to approach the patients of other doctors, including me. That had been one reason that I had declined to join them although I was also suspicious that because I now treated relatively few patients they merely wanted the fame (such that I had achieved) of my name on the door.

Even had I been inclined to accept their invitation, the shabby way in which the fellows had treated my friend Peter Greenwood, who should by all rights have been at least asked if he wished to join them, would have deterred me. The outcome was rather comical; three weeks later Peter had chanced to treat a certain Famous Personage who had collapsed at a dinner and had stopped breathing. I cannot name them here but they had connections to both government and royalty, and they were not unnaturally grateful. A month after that my friend was amazed to find himself Sir Peter Greenwood, Baronet, and of course the departing doctors suddenly found that they _did_ want him after all. Peter, who could wield a decidedly Anglo-Saxon turn of phrase when the need arose, duly told them exactly where to shove it; they were fortunate that he did not throw in a free demonstration!

I have kept this back till now because if was my newly-ennobled friend who was to drag us into the case of the theatre death. We met for our morning break as per usual and he mentioned that he had been at the play as well.

“One of the supposed perks of being a baronet”, he said. “You get free invitations to such things because they know the newspapers the following day will be listing those who attended in descending social order. I am surprised that they have not started attacking your friend for allowing a murder to take place only yards away from where he was sitting.”

Peter knew of course that at this time Sherlock was rather more than just my 'friend'. We had recently been through the utterly mortifying experience of his giving me a physical in which he had recommended various things that I should or should not do concerning sexual matters at my age, and I do not know which of us had emerged the more embarrassed!

“What did you think of the play?” I asked. He winced.

“It was hard to work out which part was the worst!” he said. “I found myself actually timing Little Betsy's song; it went on for over twelve minutes although I think my watch may have been slow as it seemed so, so much longer. I only really went because I know Jack – Mr. Rhodes, the theatre manager. I had gone backstage afterwards to thank him and they had just found the body, so I was the first to examine it.”

“What did you find?” I asked.

“Death occurred some time between seven and half-past”, he said, “and was due to a small, sharp weapon, quite probably the dagger found close by. The room where the body was found is at the end of a dead-end corridor and Jack was stationed at the top of it where it meets the stage. He was there all the time except during the girl's song when he 'claimed' that he went to the lavatory. I suspect that he just wanted to get out of screeching distance!”

I chuckled at that.

“Is your friend going to investigate the case?” Peter asked. “It must be rare, a killing taking place so close to him and him unaware of it.”

“Do not tell him that!” I said. “He will take it as a personal challenge.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

As it turned out I was too late. I arrived home to find Sherlock less than happy.

The 'Times' lists all the great and the good attending that awful play”, he fumed, “and made a point of snarking about my inability to spot a murder 'almost right in front of me'. Am I to be held accountable for all crimes that occur in a set radius around my person?”

Fortuitously Peter had most kindly alerted me to the afternoon edition of the newspapers before I had left, so I had guessed what to expect when I got home. I passed him a small paper bag and he looked at me in confusion before opening it.

“Apple barley-sugar”, he said happily. “You went to Mr. Bushell's sweet-shop just for me.”

“I would go so much further”, I said kissing him and eliciting a blush. “You know that. And I have arranged for Peter to ask his friend Mr. Rhodes the theatre manager to come round this evening and tell us everything that he knows.”

He gave me what was most definitely a look.

“Stop that!” I said hastily. “He could be here any minute!”

“Later!” he growled, giving me an even darker look.

It was going to be a long hard evening. _With any luck!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Jack Rhodes was a smartly-dressed man in his late thirties and I noted that he wore a temperance badge on his cloak. The word that I instinctively thought of was 'dapper', although that thought was quickly followed by the more unfortunate one that I had known several well-presented murderers. 

I really needed to get out more. And some annoying bastard could cut with the nodding _right now!_

“I had better start by explaining the layout of the place, sirs”, he said accepting a cup of tea. “As the audience looks at it I was off stage to the left. There is a whole set of levers, lights and pulleys that the stage manager Fred – Mr. Satterthwaite – operates during the performance and I was stood right next to him.”

“Could he have left his post?” Sherlock asked. “Or have not seen anyone pass him?”

Our guest shook his head.

“You will remember that during Little Betsy's song – and yes gentlemen, I know how truly appalling it was so kindly do not remind me! - there were two spotlights on her while the rest of the stage was in darkness”, he said. “Because we do not want those powerful lights to come on accidentally, their lever has to be held down to keep them on, which means that Fred must have been there to do it. It cannot be wedged into position or anything like that. I came back just as the caterwauling was mercifully coming to an end and he was still there. But he does stand with his back to the corridor so someone could have slipped by him, I suppose. Also he is a bit hard of hearing - unless someone offers him a pint!”

I smiled at that.

“The corridor leads to the four private dressing-rooms”, he continued. “That is fortunate as the play requires four main actors who... well, they are actors. Not the easiest of people to get on with and that is the polite version of what I think about them. Everyone wants the largest dressing-room, their name first on the billboards, _et cetera, et cetera_.”

“The 'Times' named the dead man as a Mr. Charles Staunton”, Sherlock said. “Who was he, exactly?”

Our guest sighed.

“He was the fellow who funded the play”, he said ruefully, “and bitterly unpopular because of it. Have you heard of the play's author, Miss Georgiana Brontë?”

We both shook our heads.

“Because she shares the same surname as some of our greatest writers – she is no relation - she appears to believe that she shares their talent”, Mr. Rhodes said heavily. “Sorry I am to tell you this but 'The Executioner's Song' is the second part of a trilogy of hers; three crimes against literature for the price of one. The same actors backed by Mr. Staunton put on the first part, 'Now We Are Five', in a small provincial theatre last year. It sank like a stone; the kindest comment from those who reviewed it was that it was the most painful way imaginable to end it all! Yet he thought it was wonderful, and is apparently looking forward to the horror that will be Part Three!”

“He sounds a strange character indeed”, I said incredulously. “Why did the actors agree to it?”

“They all signed up to the whole three-play contract before they saw the actual script”, Mr. Rhodes explained, “so they were bound to do it. You know how irregular an actor's income can be. I am very much afraid.....”

He stopped but we both knew what he was afraid of. He was in all probability correct.

“Tell us about the actors”, Sherlock pressed. “I assume that the girl playing Little Betsy is excused since she was under the spotlight when the killing must have happened.”

To my surprise Mr. Rhodes shook his head.

“Miss Amy Shaw cannot carry a tune to save her life!” he said. “Fortunately her younger sister Patricia has a tolerable voice even if the tune was abhorrent. She the one was on stage for those twelve fateful minutes and when she ran off crying per the script that enabled us to substitute her sister back on again. The three other actors were all in the dark so one of them could easily have slipped away and down the corridor for a few moments.”

“But Miss Shaw is a child!” I objected. Mr. Rhodes shook his head.

“A dwarf, as is her sister”, he told me. “She would do it too; she is one of those ladies who is heavily into women's suffrage and getting her to stop talking about it is a Sisyphean task!”

I smiled at that.

“Mr. Henry D'Abitot is a cousin of the deceased”, Mr. Rhodes went on. “I am in two minds about him. On one hand I know that he must be innocent, yet he did commit an act of theft which I found quite bizarre.”

“How can you know that he is innocent?” Sherlock asked. For some reason Mr. Rhodes blushed.

“He, um, has a rather unfortunate hair-piece”, he said, staring anywhere but at us. “I am sure that you noticed it as he _insists_ on wearing it in his part, despite the other actors mocking him for it. It is really, really bad, and quite distinctive. Albert, one of the stage hands, says that he saw a figure standing near the back right of the stage where Mr. D'Abitot's character was before the 'song' and that he could make out the hair-piece. He and the boys call it 'Rover'!”

I sniggered and Sherlock smiled.

“Mr. D'Abitot is about forty-five and of average build”, Mr, Rhodes said. “I mentioned his act of theft, which concerns me as I do not see either any reason for it or for that matter how it relates to what happened. Mr. Staunton had a ring, and I noticed it one day some time back because it has two lions on it and my son John told me when I asked that it was the symbol of the old Duchy of Normandy. After the body was taken away I was talking with Mr. D'Abitot when I noticed him wearing the very ring, but why he stole it is a mystery unless he managed to somehow find the dead man before anyone else and did it then. Yet I am sure that it cannot be worth much.”

Sherlock's eyes lit up at that, but I did not see why. An opportunistic theft and no chance to commit the murder. So what?

“I incline more towards Mr. Horace Shallow”, Mr. Rhodes said. “He is just short of thirty, very athletic and it was known that he had words with Mr. Stanton demanding to be let out of his contract. He had been refused. That leaves Mr. Joshua Gardiner, sixty years of age who played the old gentleman. He and Miss Shaw hate each other something fierce, I can tell you. The thing with him is, he wishes to retire without the blot on his name that this awful play will doubtless be while the others want to carry on careers without being remembered for Little Betsy's so-called singing.”

“You said that the victim was found in one of the four actors' rooms”, Sherlock said. “Which one?”

“Mr. Shallow”, our guest replied.

“Who found the body?”

“Also Mr. Shallow”, Mr, Rhodes said. “He went back to his room after the performance was over, and called out in shock when he saw someone was in his room. Mr. D'Abitot was at his own door a few feet away and was there in seconds, so it is unlikely that he would have had time for anything.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and stared at our guest. I knew what that presaged. I got to six before he broke.

“Yes”, he sighed. “There was something else. We have a rule, you see. We have sets of pumps for people to wear during performances so they can move around quietly. When I checked the victim immediately after he had been found I noted that one of the pumps was off his foot; I saw it by the door as I left. But when I came back with Peter, _both_ pumps were on his feet.”

“Well, that seems fairly obvious”, Sherlock said. “Watson, can you please pass me the atlas? The one of Great Britain, not the world one.”

Mystified I did so. He evidently looked something up then smiled and nodded.

“The theatre where the prequel to this travesty was inflicted on the poor public was somewhere in the southern Welsh March, was it not?” 

“Yes, Hereford”, our guest answered. “How did you know that?”

“I am pleased to say that the doctor and I will be spared a further performance of Miss Brontë's 'efforts'”, Sherlock said. 

“You know who the murderer is?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said. “Mr. Rhodes, I take it that there is no performance tonight?”

“No”, our guest said. “It was cancelled as a mark of respect. But the actors are at the theatre rehearsing for when we do re-open. Also I am sure that you know what the London public is like; many will attend the next performance hoping to see a second killing.”

 _Cynical but most likely correct,_ I thought. Sherlock smiled.

“Then let us go and catch ourselves a murderer!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was not pouting at his not having told me who it was, as we walked down between the seats to the four actors waiting for us on the stage. I was not.

“If you want a hint”, he whispered, “remember the Colonel Upwood case.”

Oh yes. A case about cheating at cards that Sherlock had solved because the killer's coat had not been wet. That _really_ helped!

I was still not pouting when we reached the stage. Introductions were kept brief but even so I rapidly came to the conclusion that Peter's friend had if anything understated the sheer awfulness of these bohemians. They were so full of themselves, they would have given some of the politicians I had had the misfortune to encounter a run for their money. Possibly even a certain lounge-lizard whose absence from my life of late had been a true blessing.

“Thank you for being here”, Sherlock smiled, nodding at me for some reason. “We are here tonight to say which of the five of you killed Mr. Charles Staunton.”

 _Five, not four_ , I thought. I noted that Mr. Rhodes was palpably sweating.

“Get on with it, man”, Miss Shaw snapped. She had long blonde hair and was wearing enough make-up to keep a department store going for some time. “I have a train to catch!”

Sherlock just looked at her. She subsided, scowling.

“Let us speak frankly”, he said. “You all, each and every one of you, had motive. The reviews of the play and its predecessor in the trilogy in which you all 'starred' have run the gamut from mocking to openly derogatory. Had you been compelled by the contracts that you all signed with Mr. Staunton to have partaken in the third instalment of this travesty, it would have damaged if not ruined your careers.”

He turned to Mr. Rhodes.

“You, of course, had only this particular instalment in your own theatre”, he said, “but that alone doubtless did considerable harm. People will remember the Gaumont as 'where that Betsy play was so dreadful, someone actually died', and might well be deterred from coming here. On the other hand and sorry I am to say this, there is nothing like a murder to drum up trade. The British public has an unfortunate sense of the _macabre_ and I can guarantee that regardless of the, ahem, quality of the writing many people will be turning up at the next performance if only in the hope of another murder.”

I winced at his frankness. And his being so right.

“So, to the killing”, Sherlock said. “This was an exceptionally well-planned crime which, had the killer not made a number of minor errors they might have succeeded in getting away with it. Sir?”

He turned to Mr. Rhodes who contrived to look even more nervous.

“Yes, sir?” he managed.

“Your observational skills were central to solving this case”, Sherlock said. “You claimed that Mr. D'Abitot had stolen a ring with a heraldic device from the dead body.”

“I did no such thing!” Mr. D'Abitot said hotly.

“I believe you”, Sherlock said with a smile. “You did not steal – _but you did kill!_ My friend Doctor Watson is holding a gun in his pocket which is aimed at you, so I would not risk making a run for the wings just now.”

I did indeed have my gun although I had not expected this. Sherlock moved swiftly across and cuffed the shocked man, who had gone deathly pale.

“Mr. Rhodes was observant, but he misread what he actually saw”, Sherlock said. “I contacted the police to check the report once he mentioned the ring – _and they confirmed that the dead body has the ring still on it._ Yet we can all see that there is that same ring on Mr. D'Abitot's finger right now. The likelihood of two identical coats of arms on the rings of two men who worked together seemed to me infinitesimally small, and that led me to reconsider what happened in a past case.”

“Oddly enough even criminals find it hard to lie, and Mr. D'Abitot was no exception. Mr. Charles Staunton's family hails from the Gloucestershire village that bears his name and which lies some way north of the county town. That was how I was able to place the first performance; like most actors his cousin adopted a different performance name, taking a surname from the nearby village of Redmarley D'Abitot. His real name is Mr. Henry Staunton so he is the dead man's cousin - _and also his heir.”_

We all stared at him in shock although I kept one eye on Mr. D'Abitot. He seemed stunned at all this.

“As we were coming here”, Sherlock said, “I asked you Mr. Rhodes a rather unusual question which you answered in the affirmative.”

“You did”, the manager said warily, “although I do not see why having a statue on rollers was of any significance to the case. In the theatre we often need to move large objects like that around.”

“It was important because it featured in the crime”, Sherlock said. “Mr. D'Abitot arranges to meet his cousin briefly during the performance. I know not the reason behind that meeting although I would wager some financial problems are involved, but what mattered was that Mr. D'Abitot intended to kill his cousin and inherit his wealth.”

“His use of a hair-piece has suggested to him what seems an almost unbreakable alibi. He knows that during Little Betsy's twelve-minute song the spotlights will be on her and the rest of the stage will be pitch black, and most likely even the stage-hands will be more intent on keeping in their ear-plugs than watching what is happening around them. No-one would be surprised if one or more of the other actors had slipped off at this time but he needs to be 'seen' even though he is not there. So he places his hair-piece on the statue, moves it to his position and slips away. The stage-hands could only see a dim outline in the dark, but they _could_ make out the distinctive hair-piece.”

I looked instinctively at 'Rover'. It was indeed quite distinctive, almost as bad on the one I had seen on Lord Joseph's head in the Amateur Mendicant case. I really wished that I had a handy biscuit to wave in its direction.

“He knows that Mr. Satterthwaite may or may not observe a shadow passing behind him as he heads to his meeting”, Sherlock went on, looking disapprovingly at me for some reason, “but the later discovery that he could not have committed the crime because of his apparent alibi means that that will not be a problem for him. His poor cousin suspects nothing, right up until the moment Mr. D'Abitot thrusts a dagger into him. It is over in seconds.”

Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Shallow both edged away from the cuffed actor. Frankly I did not blame them.

“I do not doubt that the walls and doors of those rooms are solidly built”, Sherlock said, “to prevent any sound from carrying to the stage. Mr. D'Abitot drags the body across to his fellow actor's room and in doing so makes his next mistake. Following theatre rules his cousin is wearing pumps to minimize noise, and as he is dragged to his final destination Mr. D'Abitot does not notice that once of them has become dislodged.”

He reached into a bag he had been carrying and pulled out a set of pumps which, I assumed, had been those worn by the victim. He stared hard at Mr. D'Abitot.

“On our way here”, he said, “we called in at the police-station where the evidence for the case was being held. In the presence of a witness I examined these items which were worn by your poor cousin, and I found something very interesting. A human hair.”

“So?” Mr. D'Abitot sneered, breaking his silence at last. “Lots of people have hair, Mr. Holmes!”

Sherlock smiled dangerously.

“It was not the _hair_ that interested me”, he said, “but what was on it. Fortunately the police doctor was able to carry out a rudimentary test on it which proved exactly what I had suspected. In the normal course of events, the hair would not have adhered to the outside of the pumps yet this one had – because it had a thin coating of a special adhesive application that is sold to those who wear hair-pieces.”

Mr. D'Abitot seemed to be having trouble breathing. I had no sympathy for him whatsoever.

“You only noticed the displaced pump _after_ the body had been discovered”, Sherlock said. “You knew full well that if it was noted someone might then conclude that it had fallen off because the body had been moved which might lead the police to search your room where, I am sure, there was some evidence of the crime. You replaced the pump – but someone had noticed it before you could act, and it also betrayed you by trapping one of your hairs on its surface. Plus there is one more thing.”

Sherlock smiled at the actor then walked over to where the statue was at the back of the stage. He pulled up a nearby box and vaulted effortlessly on top of it, looking down onto the statue.

“Now what do we have here?” he said in mock horror. “It looks like some sort of tape....”

Mr. D'Abitot yelled an obscenity and tried to rush at him, but his cuffed hands unbalanced him and he ended up sprawling inelegantly to the floor. Mr. Rhodes and I rushed to contain him after which the manager left to summon the police.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“'Heavens To Betsy'.”

I looked across our fireplace at him.

“Pardon?” I said.

“That is the name of the third and final instalment of Miss Brontë's crimes against literature”, he chuckled. “I wonder if anyone will ever be prepared to put that on the stage?”

“That”, I said stiffly, “would be _more_ than ample justification for murder!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	8. Case 188: The Adventure Of Miss Austen's Play ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Sherlock has to make a burglar talk to reveal where he hid a bag that he stole – but is his solution too cruel?   
> No.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No hot-air balloons were damaged in the writing of this story.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was a curious thing, but just days after an encounter with a Miss Brontë who was absolutely nothing like the original in talent, we had a case concerning another of England's great authoresses albeit of a very different type. And again concerning works that were.... probably not quite what that lady might have deemed acceptable. In the sense that the Atlantic Ocean is probably not quite dry.

It was a cold April day when I came back into our rooms still shaking and John, bless him, had a coffee ready for me. I downed it in one go and subsided gratefully into his arms.

“How bad was it?” he asked after several minutes of manly embracing.

“Worse than even I feared!” I shuddered. “'Prodding And Plunges'; Mother has rewritten Miss Austen's greatest work in which Mr. D'Arcy and Mr. Bingley.....”

“Stop!” he ordered.

“There was even a hot-air balloon....”

He silenced me by the simple but effective expedient of kissing me until I had stopped talking; I suppose that that was just about acceptable in the circumstances. Although when Mrs. Hudson delivered a bacon supper less than half an hour later, I may or may not have cried. A bit.

I had such wonderful friends!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was the following day, and I was still resenting the fact that I might never be able to read Miss Austen's most famous book again when Gregson came round. John was clearly as shocked as I was; it was two clear days to Mrs. Hudson's next baking day....

Damnation, he had me doing it again! I glared at the villain and he had the brass neck to look all innocent!

The inspector sank exhaustedly into a chair.

“You look tired, Gregson”, I said. “Is something wrong?”

“Plenty!” our friend said grimly. “Have you seen the newspapers?”

“John has, I am sure, glanced at the social pages”, I teased. That earned me an annoyed glare and a most adorable pout, which was most unwise of him. He knew when he did that what would be happening once we were alone... and from those suddenly widened hazel eyes he had belatedly remembered!

“Ahem!” Gregson coughed. “Policeman here!”

“Sorry”, I smiled, quite deliberately running my tongue around my lips in a way that made John shake visibly. “What can we help you with?”

“One Mrs. Willis had her bag snatched in Park Lane of all places”, he said. “Nowhere is safe, it seems. She is the niece of our Sir Edward!”

“The Chief Commissioner”, I said. “Justice for all, but a quicker sort for those with superior connections or it will be the likes of your neck on the line, Gregson. Was there anything valuable in the bag?”

“Just the usual things women keep in there, I think”, Gregson said. “Lord alone knows what; I think there are some extra dimensions with all the stuff that comes out at times.”

I just stared at him. Impressively my silent counting got to twelve before he broke. Up from ten; he was improving.

“I hate it when you do that!” he grumbled. “All right, there was a letter written to her years ago by a young soldier when she was a teenager, just before he went off and got killed. She always kept it with her and she is devastated by its loss.”

I saw his problem at once.

“You do not have the evidence to hold the assailant”, I said, “and once he has read and grasped the importance of the letter he will be in a position to demand a large sum from Mrs. Willis. Which she will likely pay.”

He nodded glumly.

“The thief is a sly bastard by name of Edwards”, he said. “We are watching him but he has hidden the thing somewhere and we do not know where. If we bring him in for questioning he will just clam up and wait for his lawyer, who will let the time run out.”

I thought back to the case of LeStrade's poisoning, which had also been a race against time. Clearly some sort of pressure needed to be applied to this Mr. Edwards, but what?

That was when I had one of the darkest thoughts of my career as a consulting detective. Perhaps... yes. Arguably cruel – again in the sense that the ocean was arguably wet - but almost certain to work. Albeit at a price to some people.

“I shall send out for someone today”, I said, “and once I have a timetable I will give you a time to pull this fellow in. You will need a room isolated at the back of a police-station, and you must find a reason to handcuff the fellow.”

Gregson looked at me uncertainly, and I could not blame him.

“Anything else while I am at it?” he asked. 

“Yes”, I grinned. “One of your officers will need a pair of quality ear-plugs!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Once Gregson had gone I told John about my idea. He stared at me in shock.

“There must surely be laws against that!” he protested.

“Hardly”, I said. “Besides, the likes of Mr. Edwards make eavesdropping part of their trade. They can hardly complain when they hear something that they do not like.”

“Never mind not liking”, John said. “He will be sent completely off his rocker!”

“An interesting idea”, I smiled. “We must purchase a rocking-chair one day and I can then see if I can fuck you 'off your rocker'. In the meantime....”

He was already halfway to his room. I still nearly caught him at the door, though!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Thankfully and despite having to deal with the horrors of modern technology, everything worked like a dream. It had not been Gregson's station that had had to arrest Mr. Edwards but I made sure that he got some of the credit for coming up with my horrible idea. Plus there was the added bonus that once this got round London's criminal fraternity, quite a few of them would think twice before targeting any relations of top policemen which, Mr. Edwards had known full well when picking his target, Mrs. Willis was. He had more than paid for that foul act.

“But I still do not see how you did it, sir”, Gregson said when he came round. He was not our only visitor, a pale (understandably so) young gentleman of about twenty years of age was sat on the couch nursing a large whisky. I was frankly surprised that it was just his second.

“I can tell you”, I said, “but I am afraid that even you may find it rather disgusting. Also I would not like for the Metropolitan Police Service to start using it as a regular thing when interrogating their suspects. Although they have been informed that if they do, Miss St. Leger may feel impelled to start inquiring into certain senior officers' movements again,”

“They will not use it if I have anything to do with it!” our young guest muttered.

“The boys at the station just shook their heads at me when they told me he had confessed”, Gregson said, looking perplexed. “They even said that his own lawyer abandoned him when he was brought in! What did you do, sir?”

I took a deep breath.

“I am sure that you, like most Londoners, know that my dear mother is wont to write some, ahem, interesting stories from time to time”, I began.

He had gone almost as pale as our other guest, and looked round fearfully as if he expected one of those terrible scripts to suddenly leap out on him. I was not surprised; several of the molly-men who John treated had to be reassured first that he was not going to suddenly produce one from his bag and start inflicting it on them. It said something for the unthinking terror engendered by Mother's works that none of them grasped just how unlikely (as in utterly and completely impossible) that was.

“With the help of Mr. Stephens here I used the wonders of the modern phonograph to record the first three chapters of 'Prodding And Plunges', my mother's rewrite of a novel by Miss Austen who is likely traumatized even in heaven by what has been done to her greatest work. I will not divulge the details save to say that it involved a hot-air balloon, a lack of clothing and some unfortunately-positioned ropes, but I arranged for a phonograph that played particularly loudly to be placed in the room where the interrogation was taking place and.....”

I stopped and looked meaningfully at him. He was now a deathly white.

“Poor fellow”, he said. “No wonder his lawyer scarpered and he confessed; I would have done the same. The boys at the station?”

“That was where the ear-plugs came in”, I smiled. “The only downside was that one of them had to remain to prevent the machine from being stopped, although as I had suggested they had cuffed the fellow to a nailed-down table that was not a problem after the lawyer had fled. The accused man confessed when the officer moved to start the second recording.”

“The one where Mr. D'Arcy sees Mr. Bingley bathing naked in the lake!”, Mr. Stephens shuddered. “To think that I once liked that book!”

“I think that you can understand why I paid triple time for your services now”, I smiled. “You could always look on the bright side.”

He turned a haggard face towards us both.

 _”What_ bright side?” he demanded.

“Well”, I said, “if my mother ever got to hear of this, she might employ your company and ask you to record the whole book.”

He gasped in horror. Both Gregson and John looked pale too.

“Because sorry though I am to say it, she was so thrilled with her 'achievement' that she is moving on to both 'Sense And Sensibility' and 'Persuasion'”, I said. “Writers these days!”

“If I ever produce anything even remotely like that”, John said firmly, “you have my full permission to shoot me.”

“Not if I get to him first!” Mr. Stephens muttered.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Mrs. Willis had her bag safely returned to her, and I was able to put her in touch with Mr. Silas Rosenstern who produced a perfect copy of her precious letter down even to the original type of paper, so that she could keep that with her while the original stayed securely locked in a safe at home. As for Mr. Edwards, he served the appropriate time in gaol for his crime before emerging a free man – whereupon he went to darkest Peru and was never seen or heard from again! I suppose the land of the Incas was just about far enough away from ropes and hot-air balloons.... ugh!

I did suggest to John that I might read further extracts from my mother's terrible book to him, but he managed to 'talk' me out of it very effectively by telling me that I could do what I liked if only I would stop talking. My mother's stories were good for some things, it seemed!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	9. Case 189: The Adventure Of The Father-Figure ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. A case from a rarely seen part of London life, when John has to treat a badly beaten molly-man, Sherlock has to deliver justice, and Mrs. Hudson has to again not open the wrong door at the wrong time. Except that she does.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

“I..... would like to not go into the bedroom, sir.”

Had it been John uttering that phrase I would have been concerned (all right, and disappointed). But the ebony-skinned behemoth who was was standing awkwardly in our room had his reasons, as I could well guess.

“Would you like _me_ to leave, Chem?” I offered.

The huge fellow shook his head firmly. Mr. Charles Henry Edward 'Chem' Malone, one of Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson's 'boys', had been delivered here by John's least favourite Cornish ex-fisherman Mr. Lowen Trevelyan a short time ago, and I had felt humbled that the giant trusted us enough to let Lowen leave him in our care. Chem was first cousin to Mr. Benjamin Hope whom we had rescued from the horrors of the Tankerville Club, although quite a bit older. Physically he was quite similar to my friend Benji but beefy rather than muscular.

“I would rather you did not, Mr. Holmes sir”, he said quietly. Like so many of the molly-men he spoke perfect English but could 'turn it on' for his trade. “Can you stay, please?”

“I can read my book as well here as in my room”, I smiled. “Go ahead, John.”

I knew from my friend's behaviour ever since Chem had arrived that something was very wrong, but as the giant began to disrobe even I was unprepared for what was to come. He had been very badly beaten up, his impressive figure covered with bruises and marks. I kept my face blank but my thoughts darkened. Someone was going to pay dearly for this!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Once John had treated his patient he escorted him back to his house which was not that far away while I went to see Sweyn. The Viking looked unusually down, I thought.

“What surprised me”, I told him once I had assured him that his 'boy' was all right, “is that someone of Chem's age is still working in what is mostly a young man's industry. He must be at least forty, and few work after that age. Or so I had thought.”

“Forty-five”, Sweyn said, to my surprise. “It was Lloyd's idea, and I am beginning to think that it may not have been one of his better ones.”

I looked at him curiously. Lloyd Jackson-Giles, the younger brother of the prodigious Benji, was not quite nineteen years of age yet and his boyish looks as well as his tender years had precluded him from being allowed to work in this business. It must have been doubly frustrating for Sweyn for he had lusted after the young man when they had first met three years back and the two had become lovers the previous year when Lloyd had reached eighteen, but to the Viking's eternal credit he like my stepbrother Campbell refused to allow anyone to work for him who was either not twenty-one or who looked it. In an industry where far too many of the 'boys' were indeed boys and likely to remain such for many a year, such integrity was rare.

“What idea?” I asked.

“He suggested that since fifteen years did not deter us from being together”, he said, “it might work for other young men out there. The house nearest you is one of two to try this 'My Father's House thing; some older men want someone of their own ages but in good condition, often as not just to be held than for the actual sex, while some young clients want a father-figure, and they get the 'father' that they want. Disciplining plays a large part in it as well.....”

He stopped, grinning at my very evident discomfiture. He was almost as bad as Campbell, damn the villain!

“What happened to Chem?” I pressed. “I suggested as carefully as I could that he should go to the police, but he refused.”

“Which of us in this trade would?” he said dryly. “We make our own justice here.”

I thought sadly that that was all too true.

“Have you any idea who might have done this to him?” I asked.

“No”, he said thoughtfully, “but I think he knows something about his attackers, or at least he thinks that he does. As you know his nephew Danny is a copper so he could easily have made some off the record inquiries, but when I suggested that he was terrified. I had to promise him that I would not get involved, much as I wanted to.”

“Fortunately I made him no such promise”, I said grimly, “and I intend to get _very_ involved!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Normally I could have gone straight to Miss St. Leger and she would, I was sure, have been able to identify all the attackers and to likely tell me what each of them had had for breakfast that morning. But I knew that she had suffered an ankle sprain during her recent historical re-enactment thing the previous weekend so instead I dispatched a box of jam cream fingers to her home and set about the task myself. Fortunately I had just the tool to extract the information I needed from poor Chem.

Three days later we had a visitor to Baker Street. John was clearly less than delighted when it turned out to be Benji, who always leered at me in such a way as to make him jealous. It was not as if I paid the railwayman to come round as often as he did.

Look, I did not pay him _that_ much.

“Sorry I couldn't come round sooner, sir”, Benji said, somehow managing to look respectful and leer at one and the same time (I was impressed). “Mr. Lucifer had a whole day off yesterday and borrowed me for a special train that he had to take to Cambridge and back.”

That would explain why my cousin had looked half-dead at the gymnasium this morning, I thought with a smile. Also why he had all but screamed when he had sat down too quickly on that hard bench. Luke really was a glutton for punishment considering that he was a man in his forties, and if he did much more of that sort of thing with Benji he might well not survive to see his fifties!

“I spoke with Chem as you asked, sir”, Benji said. “He didn't want to tell me as you said, but I gave him my best look and I got it out of him.”

I smiled at that. For such a huge and muscular fellow, Benji really could look like the most downtrodden man in all existence. I had mentioned to John how effective his 'woe is me' face was and he had muttered something about pots and kettles for some reason. Now he was just shifting in his chair, visibly annoyed at our guest's continued presence.

“What did he say?” I asked, not smiling at all (much).

“He said the men were all wearing masks, like he told Mr. Sweyn sir”, Benji said. “But when they were walking away from him he saw them under a street-light and recognized one of them.”

“How could he do that at a distance and in his condition?” John asked suspiciously.

“He said it had to be Mr. Tyler from work, sir”, Benji said, leering at me yet again. “This fellow had the same curly hair that Pelham at the house does. You know, the straw thing.”

 _A strawberry blond_ , I thought. _Very rare. Perhaps a shade too rare._

“Thank you Benji”, I said, passing him an envelope with some coins in. “We are always pleased to see you, are we not John?”

There was a grunt from the table where 'someone' was evidently not _that_ pleased to see our visitor. Benji managed one last leer before he left.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I do not know why.... you do not like Benji.”

John moaned beneath me in the bed as I thrust into him again. He had evidently been prepared to sulk for the rest of the day, so I had taken him away to sort matters out. I suppose there might be a bit of explaining to do as to why one of our beds needed remaking in the middle of the day, but the maids here pretty much knew what went on judging by all the sniggering we heard every time we saw one of them.

“More!” my love moaned, writhing beneath me.

“I am giving it everything I have”, I said plaintively. “But if you want more, then I suppose I could ask Luke if I could borrow Benji. He could surely leave you unable to sit down for a week.”

He pouted, clearly assuming that as he was face down I could not see it.

“Stop pouting, John”, I said quietly.

“How did you..... aaaaiiieeeee!”

I had taken advantage of his distraction to reach round and tweak both his nipples, which I had swiftly learned were his most sensitive part. His body convulsed and he tightened around me as he came before his body sagged and his breathing started to return to normal.

That was when I began to fuck him in earnest.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Chem's 'regular' job was as a postman, and as his delivery office was quite close to Baker Street I decided to go round there and make some inquiries. I could not of course take John with me as he was still sleeping off our burst of morning love-making, but it was a pleasant enough walk.

Technically speaking it was not a strut.

The delivery office was in a street with shops on both sides, and as I approached I smiled to myself. Almost directly opposite was a small costume store. I needed to make some inquiries in there, although I was momentarily distracted by a French maid's costume in the window. I had a most pleasant image of someone wearing that costume while he made the bed to my satisfaction, and when he inevitably failed, paying a willing price for it. It was a large costume and looked fairly sturdy.

I emerged from the shop a few minutes later smiling for another reason, feeling that at least I knew _how_ this crime had been done if not yet by whom. I went into the delivery office and asked to speak with the manager, and just moments later I was ushered into the offices of an affable-looking fellow in his late twenties called Mr. Patrick Duff.

“I am, sorry to say, making inquiries into an assault”, I said. “One of the gentlemen who works here, a Mr. Charles Malone.”

Mr. Duff looked surprised at that. There was also a definite tensing of his body, although that happened often when I was questioning someone.

“He came in as usual today”, he said warily, “and he has not said anything about that to us.”

“Doubtless he does not wish to raise a fuss that might endanger his position here”, I said. “Unfortunately for whoever is responsible, I am quite prepared to raise a fuss.”

I looked at him pointedly. He visibly reddened.

“You wish to know if anyone here had anything against Chem?” he asked.

Aha! I looked at him, then smiled.

“Mr. Duff”, I said carefully, “I think that we both know about Mr. Malone's.... what one might call extracurricular activities. Indeed, you clearly know them in rather more intimate detail than me.”

He was now so red that if I had had John with me, he might well be rushing round the table to loosen the fellow's collar.

“I..... I never....”

“Only those who know Mr. Malone well call him Chem rather than Charlie”, I said. “Either as friends or..... something else.”

His breathing was also a little irregular now.

“We are both adults”, he said frigidly, “and what we do out of work is nobody's business but our own.”

“I quite agree”, I said. “Yet Mr. Malone has been attacked, and I believe that it has something to do with his work here. Is there anyone here who might dislike him enough to behave in such a brutal manner?”

He was clearly relieved that the conversation was moving away from a dangerous area. I reflected that he was almost young enough to be Chem's son, but then this was London. Perhaps Lloyd Jackson-Giles had been right after all about that sort of thing.

“There was some... discord in the place two months back”, Mr, Duff admitted. “One of the managers left – he married and moved to Norfolk - so they promoted Mr. Tyler to replace him. He does not like Chem for some reason, thinking him slow. Which he is not.”

“I am sure that you of all people can attest to that”, I smiled, making him blush again. “I do not however think that Mr. Tyler is involved in this, at least not directly. Is there anyone else?”

He scratched his thinning blond thatch.

“I suppose Mr. Kensal might be annoyed with him”, he said at last. “Saul, he is the union fellow here, always wanting to call the men out on strike at the drop of a hat. The thing is, the General Post Office will not do any deal with the union unless enough of the workers are members, and Chem was always against it. He may not be the brightest fellow around but he is liked by his fellow postmen because he is so straight up, and I am sure that several of them did not join the union because of him.”

I looked across to where there was one of those strange 'family tree' diagrams showing who was above who in the company. 

“Is there a picture of Mr. Kensal there?” I asked.

“Yes”, he said. “Why?”

“I would like to borrow it”, I said. “I will only need it for a quarter of an hour or so.”

He opened his desk drawer and extracted a folder, which he leafed through until he found what he was looking for.

“Here”, he said. “We always take a spare of each person just in case. You can keep this if it will help Chem.”

“I think that we both wish to 'help' Chem”, I smiled.

He blushed again.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It took less than five minutes to return to the costume store where the assistant, annoyingly, did not recognize the photograph. But he told me that the shop owner who lived upstairs, Mr. Rogers, was in, and I was allowed to go up and see him. Sure enough I was right.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

A few days later Chem came round to Baker Street for another check-up, alone this time (I caught John's relief at the absence of a certain Cornish ex-fishermen). The molly-man looked much happier.

“Mr. Kensal has been sacked at work, sir”, he told me as he undressed. “He didn't like me at all.”

“I know”, I said. “He and his friends were the ones who attacked you. They have also been dealt with.”

He looked at me in shock.

“That can't be, sir”, he said. “I know who did me over. Mr. Tyler and his friends.”

I shook my head.

“I am afraid that Mr. Kensal took advantage of Mr. Tyler's unusual hair colouring”, I said. “He purchased a strawberry blond wig and made sure that you saw it afterwards; he knew that you would never make a fuss against a manager at your workplace.”

I noted that shocked as he was, he continued to undress almost automatically.

“That is bad, sir”, he said, finishing and standing ready for John's examination.

“It was”, I said, looking (a long way) downwards and thinking that I could understand why Mr. Duff had been shifting in his chair, “but thankfully now all is well....”

The Fates must have been looking down at me when I said that, for at that precise moment our door opened and our estimable landlady bustled in.

“I just came back from the shops and thought I would bring up this late letter..... oh!”

Poor Chem looked around for somewhere to hide, then grabbed his cap and held it over his groin area while Mrs. Hudson turned even redder than Mr. Duff had done. The poor lady!

One other thing. Chem definitely needed a bigger cap!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Thankfully Benji was able to secure a happier ending for Chem as he got him to pose at his art college, where they greatly admired his physique. I know that despite his living alone he needed the money, and although he was never truly comfortable standing around naked, as I said to John at breakfast one morning, I just had to get Benji to give him another 'woe is me' look and he would fold in seconds. 

I did not know why John rolled his eyes as he passed me his bacon that morning. I left him at least two whole rashers!

All right, one. He was damn lucky to get that in my opinion!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	10. Interlude: Chem-istry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Mrs. Hudson recovers from her second untimely opening of a 221B door that momentous year, and makes Plans.

_[Narration by Mrs. Violet Hudson]_

It was over ten years since my Bill had died, and I had never once thought of marrying again. Not until I had taken that letter up to Mr. Holmes's room and, since the red marker had not been slid across, I had presumed that it was safe to enter.

Lord, it was so not! Of course I knew that the doctor treated his patients there from time to time, but he always slid the card across as a rule so everyone knew not to enter. Oftentimes the two gentlemen would..... well, they just _would_ , and from the way the poor doctor moaned as he came down the stairs afterwards, we all knew that they had been doing rather more than playing rummy! 

Of course Mr. Holmes had his friends, and I suspected that some of them he had round quite deliberately just to tease the poor doctor. In particular two handsome young fellows Mr. Jackson-Giles and Mr. Trevelyan, the latter of whom had helped Mr. Holmes during his battle with that terrible Professor Moriarty. I know that the doctor, for all that he treated these men for nothing, was the jealous sort although only recently had his and Mr. Holmes's relationship finally, _finally_ got beyond the.... playing rummy stage. Men!

Mr. Trevelyan had been round a few days back when he had dropped off someone unusual, not just because he was black like Mr. Jackson-Giles but because he was older, a few years older than me I judged. Rather too old for what I knew and did not want to think about he likely did to make extra money. The same fellow had come back alone today but I had assumed that he must have left while I had gone out to post my letter, so when I had returned and found a late letter for them I had gone up with that and... and.....

Mr. Charles Malone was still there – and naked as the day he was born! He turned an impressive shade of red when I burst in and tried to cover his modesty with his cap but..... he would have needed a Stetson for that! I somehow remained composed (although I may have gone rather red) and handed Mr. Holmes his letter before making my escape. Of course I had heard that old saw about black men being more endowed but those muscles.... wow! As Jo says when she thinks that it might not get back to me about her ogling certain men, whoa mama!

Some time and two large whiskeys later the three of them came down – seriously, that slab of manhood was just as good going as coming! – and they must have gone to different places because the doctor came back first. I asked about the fellow who, he told me, had been beaten up by someone at work but thankfully Mr. Holmes had remedied matters for him. And the saints be praised, this Mr. Malone was single and only 'in the business' for the money. Thankfully the doctor was clearly distracted by.... certain things that I could guess were about to befall him when Mr. Holmes got back, so did not suspect what I was up to. He would soon be in not much of a position to suspect anything!

I went into the small spare room next to my own study, and looked around. It was not really suitable for a man of Mr. Malone's size (in every dimension!), but move out that spare dresser, clean it up a bit..... yes, it would do for the man I had in mind. Besides, he would not be in here for long..... my room was just along the corridor!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	11. Case 190: The Adventure Of Matchstick Mike ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. In another molly-man case, Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson finds something amiss in the files of his Debating Societies (ahem!) and asks Sherlock to investigate a possible missing man. Except that Mr. Michael Ayles is not exactly missing.....

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

This was one of our lighter adventures, and I was sorry not to be able to include it in the final canon published in 1936. However one of the main characters in it had a whole host of brothers and sisters who would have been mortified had the truth come out about their sibling, who had by that time long decamped to the wilds of northern Australia. True, most of them likely deserved to be, but silence had to be maintained for the few (two) good apples in the barrel. 

It was also another case that proved what one of John's readers would later call 'Cluster Theory', in that certain types of case just seemed to happen close to each other. In this case following my assisting Chem Malone, one of our friend Sweyn's 'boys' at one end of his career (and who coincidentally we would be seeing more of in future than we could have known), we immediately ran into a case of someone at the other end of the same business – or rather, someone who for some reason did not even start said business.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

As I have on the very odd occasion remarked, I really cannot be having with people who are too smug. However I did feel entitled to just a smidgen of smugness as I had left one English city doctor so wrecked in his room that I had had to go back and help him traverse the great distance to our bathroom. And then all but carry him back afterwards.

As Benji was fond of saying after he had 'finished' with poor Luke (who had begged me to come round to see him the other day as he was in no fit state for his own front steps let alone our two flights of stairs), _I was the man!_

I was still sat there feeling not at all smug when a card was sent up, and I smiled at the name on it. I rang down at once for our visitor to ascend, and moments later the room was filled with impressive form of my friend Sweyn, whom I had only recently helped out in the matter of Chem Malone.

The huge Viking shook his head when he saw that I was on my own.

“Did you leave the doctor in one piece?” he smiled.

“Mostly”, I said. “But there is still time. What brings you here today, friend?”

He sat down carefully on the couch. A good thing; his huge musculature would hardly have fitted the antique fireside chair.

“I was going through the records that I inherited from Campbell the other day”, he said, “when I found something a little unusual. I do not have any sense for such things but I wondered if you would check it out for me?”

“Of course”, I said. “What is it?”

“Four years ago, at the start of 'Ninety, the house had an application to join from a Mr. Michael Ayles”, he said. “He was twenty years of age but Campbell's notes – excellent as always – made it clear that he looked younger, and as you know he was having none of that.”

I nodded understandingly. Among the many things that made my friend's business stand out was his continuation of my stepbrother's policy of only employing men who were of age _and_ who looked it. As I have said before, there were far too many such institutions in London where they boys really were boys, which was just disgusting. One such had been very publicly closed down last month and quite right too.

“Campbell noted that Alan, who he writes is as terrible as ever, called the fellow 'Matchstick Mike”, Sweyn smiled. “There was nothing to him, which I suppose was why he did not look his age. He was told that he would have to wait at least another year but he sent back that a friend of his had taken him in and he was all right now.”

“Did he give a reason for joining in the first place?” I asked.

“Few do but he was one of them”, Sweyn said. “His father had died and left him with little or nothing. Campbell did offer to help out, but as I said a friend stepped in so there was no need.”

I looked at him shrewdly.

“You think this friend's timing suspect?” I asked.

“I do”, he said. “It is not much to go on, I know.”

I thought for a moment.

“How far back do the records go?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled.

“I was wondering if Campbell kept a list of who was in the house the day of the interview”, I said. “Perhaps this man saw someone there and something came of it. Of course he could have seen them going to or from the house in which case we have nothing, but it is a possible start.”

“Yes, we have those records”, Sweyn said. “Of course many of them will be fake names; as you know we only probe if a customer proves at all 'difficult'.”

I suspected that he meant 'probe' in more than one sense. John was spending a little too much time at his establishments if my guest was catching my beloved's terrible sense of humour. 

“If you can find me that list I can take it from there”, I said. “Assuming Mr. Ayles was not lying about his name and I see no reason why he would have, I am sure that the efficient Miss St. Leger will be able to find him.”

Another thing that was impressive about my friend's.... Debating Societies was how word had gotten round London about them. Men giving false names was also unknown; men knew that if they tried that then they would be dismissed immediately when whey were found out.

“She will likely tell you what he plans to have for breakfast tomorrow!” he agreed. “Thank you, friend.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sweyn did indeed find records from the day of Mr. Ayles's interview and I looked through them after sending the copy he had so thoughtfully provided to Miss St. Leger, with a request to her to find the fellow if possible.

 _If?_ What was I thinking, 'if'?

There seemed nothing extra in the file, and eventually I was distracted by the remains of an English city doctor struggling out of his room and over to the couch before collapsing on it. After a while he managed to pull himself up, and his happy face when he saw the slice of chocolate cake that I had had sent in from Branksome's for him was a joy to behold. It made me want to just.....

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Look, I allowed him to finish the cake! That was very generous of me, in my opinion!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was gentle with John for the rest of the evening after that because he had a day in his surgery tomorrow, and he had complained that he was getting more than enough smirks from the people there as it was thank you very much. Later we read through the list that Sweyn had sent round, and to my surprise John recognized one of them.

“Mr. Hercules Carfyne”, he said. “That would have been when he inherited the steel business from his father. It made quite a splash at the time.”

“Even in the social pages?” I teased. I could almost hear the resultant pout.

“It was on the business pages as well”, he said testily. “He has a whole load of half-brothers and half-sisters because he was illegitimate, but he was apparently a favourite of his father before he retired. His relatives contested the claim – there were over ten of them so I suppose it was easy to bear the cost – but they lost.”

“So Mr. Carfyne treated himself to a night on the town”, I said. “I wonder if he took back something rather more than fond memories from the molly-house? Hopefully Miss St. Leger can confirm it for us.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Indeed she did, although Mr. Carfyne was currently away doing a business deal up in northern Lancashire. But that was all well and good as it meant I could see him the day after and with John. It always felt wrong doing anything without him nowadays.

Mr. Carfyne lived in a surprisingly modest part of Paddington not that far from Baker Street, a better quality area than ours but not greatly so. The door was opened to us by a slender blond fellow of about twenty-five years of age, plain if solidly built. He looked at us inquiringly.

“Mr. Michael Ayles?” I said innocently.

The effect on the young fellow's face was almost alarming. He looked set to bolt but that avenue was quite literally closed off to him by the appearance behind him of what was presumably Mr. Hercules Carfyne. Not much taller than Mr. Ayles but broader and far more muscular, he glowered at us from the dark of the entrance-hall.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded angrily.

“Herc.... “Mr. Ayles began.

“We will see what they want”, Mr. Carfyne said shortly, “then do whatever is necessary.”

He pulled the fellow back out of the doorway and kissed him very pointedly in front of us. Mr. Ayles blushed but made no move to stop his lover before following him into a reception room. We joined them there.

“I am sorry to be raking up any unpleasant memories”, I said, “so let me first make clear why we are here. About four years ago you, young sir, went for an interview at a molly-house.”

Mr. Ayles shuddered at the memory. He was virtually on Mr. Carfyne's lap now, the larger man giving us the sort of look that suggested he was thinking of good places in which to bury our bodies. And he had the physicality to do just that. I spoke quickly.

“The gentleman who owns that business now is a friend of ours”, I said, “and he was concerned that you seemed to have disappeared in some way. He asked merely that we confirm you are all right, nothing more.”

 _“My_ Iolaus is very all right!” Mr. Carfyne said firmly.

We both looked at him in surprise. He reddened but explained.

“If you have got this far you must know about my father”, he said. “One of those men who put it about and everywhere; he had at least twenty acknowledged bastards like me. I could not believe it when he left me his steel mills and sloped off into retirement and neither could the rest of the family; as you likely know they contested it and lost.”

“I decided to celebrate by going to a molly-house for the first time. I had heard this fellow Mr. Kerr ran the best places so I went to the one nearest me. It was all right I suppose, but as I was leaving I saw the most beautiful being that the Good Lord had ever created entering the place. I was desperate to book a second session only for the fellow at the desk to say this Adonis was just here for an interview.”

“Herc, please!” Mr. Ayles said, blushing. “I looked like a walking match-stick!”

“So I waited”, Mr. Carfyne went on, pressing a finger to his lover's lips, “and I am ashamed to say that when I saw him leaving looking so sad, part of me rejoiced that they had rejected him. I followed him and when we reached a quiet alley I caught him and went down on one knee to ask him to be mine!”

“Sap!” Mr. Ayles muttered, although he was smiling as he said it.

“Hence he became Iolaus to my Hercules”, Mr. Carfyne explained. “I put it out that he was my nephew but from a much older brother, which explained the similarity in ages.”

“I am actually older”, Mr. Ayles smiled, “and some days I feel it.”

“I would hope that most days, you feel it!” Mr. Carfyne smiled.

Mr. Ayles just sighed.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We reassured the two men that we would be leaving them in peace and would only tell Sweyn that Mr. Ayles was safe and well (“and sore!” had added someone who clearly shared John's terrible sense of humour but who was large enough not to need to be told that), and that was it. Some cases one does merely because it is a service to Mankind, which is its own reward.

All right, I did get something out of this case. Mr. Carfyne may have gifted me a loincloth and I saw no reason not to spend the next few days making some legendary journeys around the man that I loved more than life itself!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	12. Case 191: The Adventure Of Bernicia Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. John returns to his native Northumberland where Sherlock solves a murder that was all but witnessed – or was it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris Police.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: Apparently the state of modern education is so dreadful that my publishers insist I explain the name in this title. The ancient Kingdom of Northumbria of which my native Northumberland was but a small part had been formed out of two older kingdoms, Deira in the south with its capital at York and Bernicia in the north, ruled from Bamburgh to which I often walked as a boy. The dividing line between the two kingdoms was most likely the River Tees dividing Durham from Yorkshire, although some say that it may have been the Tyne.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I gave some serious thought before choosing to include this case among the stories in the 1921 expansion of the Sherlock canon. Two things decided me in favour at the last; a request from Mrs. Ariadne Woodson, grand-daughter of the now late Doctor Thaddeus Winchelsey who is mentioned in this story, and the fact that these events took place not only in my native Northumberland but just a few miles from my home village of Belford to which I had not returned since leaving it for London some (ahem!) years ago.

If 'someone' across the room from me as much as sniggers at my passing over that number I.... I shall not be happy. I might even start withholding his bac..... Lord help me if he is not shaking his head, the bastard!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Over the years my contacts with the people who I had known in my home county had dwindled to just two; the aforementioned Doctor Winchelsey who had retired a few years back and had moved to a cottage in the fishing port of Seahouses not far south of Bamburgh, and the Reverend Henry Potter who had been exceedingly helpful after my father’s death (especially considering that he had taken over his post not two weeks prior to that event) and for his sins was still vicar of Belford at the time of this story. There had been some scandal about ten years back when the reverend had married a lady nearly a decade younger than himself, but fortunately his new wife had quickly won over the locals and all had been well.

It was a warm June morning and coincidentally I had been thinking of Doctor Winchelsey only the other day when I had read in the paper that work had finally started on connecting his village and neighbouring North Sunderland to the railway network. He had not mentioned it in his last letter a few months earlier, although since the line had been authorized for two years before anyone had actually stuck as much as a spade in the ground, I suppose that it was hardly news any more. As if proof that thinking of someone makes them come into your life in some way, a further letter had arrived that morning with some quite startling news.

I had read the letter twice and then locked it away in my draw. I did not want Sherlock to know about it as he had just come off another case for the government which, regrettably, had meant long and arduous meetings with his tiresome brother Randall (thankfully all away from Baker Street where the lounge-lizard was still not welcome). How my beloved refrained from slapping the waste of space whenever he had to meet him I do not know; it said wonders for his self-restraint. The matter had visibly irritated him however and I had felt compelled to let him work his frustrations out on me most evenings.

All right, I had not needed _that_ much compulsion! And the feral look I always got when he burst through the door – it would have made a lesser man shake with fear. I of course never did that.

Someone _is_ sniggering, damn the villain! Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

At dinner that evening Sherlock told me that his government case was (finally!) sorted and that he could devote himself to 'far more important matters'. I would deny that a certain part of my anatomy sprang to attention when he said that but it did and I was glad that I was seated at the table. Yet his smirk told me that he knew full well just what I was thinking and the 'uplifting' effect that he was having on me. Damnation!

I had managed to calm down (in both senses) an hour or so later and was sat reading on the couch when he came out of his room and joined me.

Naked! Stark, staring naked! I let out a whimper.

“Tell me about your letter”, he said. 

My eyes boggled.

“Wh... wh.. what?” I squeaked. “What letter?”

“The one with an Alnwick postmark that was in the mail this morning”, he said, folding his legs up Indian-style and focussing my eyes only harder - hah! - on matters southwards. I fought for those things – what were they? - oh yes. Words.

“Just a letter from someone that I know up there”, I said feebly.

He looked coolly at me while casually rubbing his already impressive erection. I did not tremble. Much. And I held out for nearly twenty seconds (if one counted them quickly) before bursting into speech.

“Doctor Winchelsey – he was the one who treated my mother in her final illness and who helped encourage me to become a doctor – he has moved to Seahouses on the coast. He has purchased a place just outside the town, or rather half of the place. Three days ago the occupant of the other half was found dead. Murdered.”

“He wishes for us to come and investigate the matter?” Sherlock asked, stroking himself faster as he spoke and letting out a most unfair moan of his own. I tried to stop my heart from beating out of my chest at the glorious sight.

“Ye.... yes!” I managed, in a voice at least an octave higher than usual.

“There”, he smiled. “That was not so difficult, was it John? That should be the second most important matter for you to attend to this evening.”

“Second?” I was almost proud I could manage a words of two syllables given that most of the blood flow to my upper brain had been triaged off to my lower one. He stood up and walked blithely over to my door.

“Do I really have to tell you the first?” he smirked slowly pushing the door open. _Without using his hand!_

Reader, he so did not have to tell me!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day we – make that Sherlock and what was left of me - adjourned to King’s Cross Station for the Special Scotch Express (the train later more famous as 'The Flying Scotsman') which would take us as far as Newcastle-upon-Tyne. There we would have to change to a slower local train as far as Chathill whence the line to Seahouses was being built. The recent Race To The North had improved services between London and Scotland immensely, and I felt this not just in the speed with which we were whipped to the town of the Geordies† but also in the relative dilatory pace of our second, local train which would call at all stations to Berwick-on-Tweed. Including my home village of Belford; I wondered if there would be time or for that matter reason for me to call in there before our return.

All right, I was also damn grateful for the padded seats in first-class! Something I hoped that I would so be for many years to come, always assuming that 'someone' did not kill me through sex somewhere along the way! And he could quit the not-smirk while he was at it!

It was surprisingly cold when we finally alighted at Chathill bearing in mind that it was just two weeks before Midsummer’s Day. There was a bracing wind sweeping in from the North Sea which made Sherlock's hair somehow even worse than usual (it was strange that while his clothes were now as more recently so much smarter than when we had first met, his hair which he kept long remained a mess). I smiled as I remembered going to sit and stare out at that sea from Bamburgh when I was younger, to dream of faraway lands and the wonderful adventures I would have there when I grew up. Now I was a man, and I had long put away such childish dreams.

I glanced at my love and smiled. There were, I supposed, one or two minor compensations to adulthood. There was no-one about on the exposed platform so I took the opportunity to hug and kiss my man, who looked surprised but pleased.

“Just thanking you for making my dreams come true”, I said, thinking that he would be quite right to think me just weird.

“Maybe later!” he grinned as he sauntered off. 

_How the blazes could I get an erection when I was this cold?_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The drive to Seahouses and my fellow doctor's house was a pleasant one (as well as mercifully being of sufficient duration for 'things' to subside!) and I could smell the salt in the air as we rolled into the little village. To Victorians of course the area was synonymous with the famously brave Grace Darling who had risked her life to row out to rescue survivors from the doomed 'Forfarshire' back in 1838. That ship had been wrecked on the rocky Farne Islands, which were just visible in the blue distance.

Our carriage took us to the Olde Ship Inn which despite a tendency to overdo the nautical theme – I did not think a lifebelt on the wall in my room was really necessary – was a warm and welcoming place. We spent a short time settling in before coming down to see Doctor Winchelsey; I had telegraphed him the evening before and he had said that he would meet us at the hotel.

Thaddeus Winchelsey was seventy-two at the time, a weathered old fellow who I thought looked very tired. Of course I remembered him in his early fifties, from when I had left Belford some twenty years ago. I suspected that the death of his wife Theodora had been instrumental in his deciding to quit Belford and hoped he had found at least some happiness here.....

Twenty years! Damnation, I _had_ counted after all!

“I am glad that you have come, John”, he smiled. “The whole sequence of events has been most trying, and I have the distinct feeling that there is more to what had happened than I have been able to perceive. I hope that your clever friend can bring his wits to bear on the matter.”

“I shall certainly do my best”, Sherlock promised. “Let us start with the sequence of events as they have occurred, our mutual friend can write them down in his inimitable scrawl” (I glared at him for that!) “and we shall see what we can do.”

Doctor Winchelsey sipped his beer and began.

“I moved here when I retired seven years ago, just after Dora died”, he began. “As I told you John, I had more than a few problems finding a replacement for the village. Young Merton was a complete flibbertigibbet if ever there was one and as for that idiot Hislop – after Mr. Smithson's daughters he had to leave town rather quickly. Fortunately Matheson proved a sound fellow and with the money that I received from selling my practice to him I purchased Number One Bernicia Cottage.”

“The house is an old farm outbuilding converted into two attached cottages, quite isolated from the village”, he continued. “It is only a quarter of a mile away but the road to it twists and runs around a small wood, so it is very private. Also the views are magnificent. I was very happy there – until three years ago.”

“You never said anything”, I observed.

“You had your own troubles then”, he reminded me. “It was February of Ninety-One, when you were somewhat engaged with a certain Professor Moriarty, and in your most recent letter to me you had sounded so sad that I did not wish to add to your worries.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked tactfully side-stepping my still painful memories of that terrible time. I was grateful for that.

“Peggy Henderson died – she lived in the other half of the cottage – and her widower John went to live with his daughter down in Amble. I had considered buying their house and letting it out for income but Quentin – Mr. Byers, the estate agent – told me that John had already accepted an offer on it some way above the asking price. I was disappointed but I looked forward to seeing my new neighbour. Which as it turned out, I did not.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Mr. Jacques Ballard turned out to be a French exile”, Doctor Winchelsey explained. “He had left his native land late the previous year and had chosen to settle in this out of the way place for reasons unknown. He clearly had money as he did not work and was only about forty years of age, according to my cleaner Lily who saw him but the once. He had one manservant, a morose young fellow called Alain. They had food and other supplies sent up from the shop in the village.”

“I got used to having a neighbour who was a recluse but as you may imagine, several of the nosier villagers wanted to find out more. There was an unfortunate incident when some local boys got into the garden and someone fired a shot from inside the house, to scare them off I suppose. I was down in the village when it happened but it still made me nervous. However things eventually settled down again; people have short memories as a rule which I have always thought a good thing.”

“We all know what country places are like and Alex - the postman - told me that the fellow had received a parcel from France two weeks before all this happened. I said nothing; doctors may come to cure many diseases but I doubt they will ever find a cure for rampant gossiping! The shooting happened on Tuesday and the last time anyone saw Mr. Ballard as far as I have found from asking around was the Saturday before when Ben who does some occasional gardening for me did see him briefly. I might suppose that the arrival of the package had some connection with his disappearance but of course I have no proof of that.”

Sherlock thought for a while.

“Who discovered the body?” he asked eventually.

“He had a visitor the day before the shooting”, the doctor said. “A Monsieur Henri Dubuque of the Paris Police, Con - Constable Constantine - told me. He arrived around lunch-time when I was out in my garden; it was a fine day and I was reading, so I saw him come up the path. I did not see him leave though.”

“I think that I need physical descriptions of all these people before we proceed further, please”, Sherlock said. Doctor Winchelsey nodded.

“Mr. Ballard was around forty years of age and had dark hair. As I said almost no-one saw him, so I am afraid that that is about all I have on the fellow. His servant Alain was I think about ten years younger and in very good physical condition; several of the local ladies had tried to approach him but had all been rebuffed. He had short-cropped fair hair and I do not think that I ever saw either him or his master smile. Their visitor Monsieur Dubuque was also around thirty years of age and with a veritable lion's mane of fair hair. I only saw him going up the path; I do not know if he saw me as the fence may have hidden me from his view and the oath twists somewhat in its course.”

“What happened on the actual day of the shooting?” I asked.

“I was in my front room with the window open and heard a loud scream from inside their house, so I hurried round – I think that it took me me a little less than a minute to get to their front door – and as it was open I went straight in. I noted that the back door had been left wide open but my attention was more drawn to the fact that Mr. Ballard was lying dead in the corridor, and a quick examination suggested that he had been killed with a dagger or some similar instrument. I presumed therefore that Monsieur Dubuque had returned, killed him and then fled, although I have no idea as to why.”

“The servant was not there?” Sherlock asked.

“Alain had had the day off and had gone to Berwick”, Doctor Winchelsey explained. “I would not normally have seen him go but he repaired a panel in the fence before heading off and I heard him hammering; I thought that a little odd as it was a rather unsociable hour. But it was what happened next that was so strange. Con took my statement as I had expected, but came to me the other day and told me that not only were they letting Alain go – which was fair enough given that he could not have done it – but also that they had also been told in no uncertain terms to drop the investigation.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Had the victim been chloroformed before his death?” he asked.

I was surprised at that question, as was my friend.

“Yes”, he said. “I thought that also rather odd, considering that Monsieur Dubuque would surely have had to have gotten close to Mr. Ballard to have done such a thing, but perhaps he knew the fellow in some capacity and took advantage of that. The smell was very strong; I had to open a window to allow it to disperse.”

“And this Alain promptly disappeared, I bet!” I muttered. Doctor Winchelsey smiled and nodded.

“He came back to the cottage on Tuesday evening and of course was not allowed in because it was a crime scene”, he said. “Mary at the hotel agreed to put him up for a few nights until everything was sorted, but he went out for a walk on Wednesday morning and did not come back. The police did look for him but he had vanished.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together and thought for a few moments.

“Thank you for inviting us into this case, Doctor Winchelsey”, he said gravely. “I rather suspect that there is more to it than meets the eye. We shall have to make one or two inquiries in the area and I believe that we may be able to achieve at least a limited resolution of matters.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I knew somehow that this case worried my friend for reasons he had not yet divulged, but I was content to wait until he was ready to unburden himself onto me. We went for a walk along the harbour before turning in for the night, and I smiled as his hair somehow contrived to get even more of a mess in the strong wind blowing in from the North Sea.

“We shall have to hire a cart tomorrow”, he said quietly, his words almost being blown away in the wind. “We may even go as far as your old home town, John.”

My friend was all too well aware that my memories of Belford were mostly negative ones. The deaths of both my parents, especially that of my mother, had made selling up and leaving the place for a new life in London relatively easy. I knew (because Sir Edward Holmes had been kind enough to tell me) that my old family house had been sold to a businessman who worked in Newcastle but wished to raise his family in the country, and that this gentleman had significantly improved the old place.

Perhaps I was ready to face my past, especially now that I was certain about my future. It lay with the man beside me, whom I would never let go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day Sherlock went out early to send a telegram from the post-office. He then hired a cart and drove us inland. We seemed first to be heading back to Chathill Station but we turned off and eventually reached Newham, the next station up the line towards Berwick. Sherlock had a brief conversation with the stationmaster there but from his face when he came out it seemed to have yielded nothing and we continued on over the railway line on to the station after that, Lucker. Again, Sherlock's efforts seemed to have met with failure and we headed west to pick up the Great North Road. 

A few miles on we reached a familiar road junction. Belford village lay some little way ahead of us while immediately to our right lay the station where Sherlock had his third conversation of the day, almost right next to my old home. I crossed the line at the level-crossing to see my old home, next to where the North Eastern Railway were clearly effecting some repairs on a row of railway cottages (I mention this because two of the future residents of those cottages would be involved in a case some years from now).

Sir Edward Holmes had understated the 'improvements' to my old place, and I had to admit that it certainly looked a lot better than when I had lived there. Everything looked well cared for and a heavily pregnant lady in her thirties was sat in the garden, reading but at the same time keeping an eye on two of her charges who were seemingly trying to push each other out of the apple-tree. As I watched her husband (I hoped!) came out and kissed her, then went over to play with their sons.

I sighed; the past truly was another country. But I was glad that the old place had found good people to look after it. My future lay elsewhere, with the man that I loved more than life itself.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I returned to the station to find Sherlock waiting for me, and from the smile on his face I knew that this time he had been successful. Typically he remembered that I might have wished to call on the Reverend Potter at the vicarage when I in my reverie had not, so we drove into the village where we were fortunate enough to catch him. And my friend's thoughtfulness brought an unexpected bonus when the vicar was able to add to our knowledge of the case.

“Of course I read about the murder”, he told us. “Indeed I had to inform the local constabulary that the murderer may have been here. Fortunately they were able to assure me that I was mistaken.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“The morning that it happened there was a foreign gentleman who came to the church to pray”, the vicar said, polishing his round glasses as he spoke. “A middle-aged gentleman; he had a lion's mane of fair hair. All he said to me was 'Reverend', but I thought that I detected a French accent. However Constable Plod visited me and said that Monsieur Dubuque, who matched that description, had travelled up from Newcastle so would hardly have gone past several stations and then had a longer ride to his destination. It was probably just a coincidence.”

_(Yes, Belford's village policeman at the time was indeed Constable Richard Plod, whom even the vicar had gone so far as to describe as 'a spineless, brainless and pointless lummocks'. A most charitable over-estimation of his abilities, I might say. I wondered if he was like our friends back in London at least able to sniff out any nearby cake....)._

“I dislike coincidences”, Sherlock said, shaking his head at me for some reason. “They happen far less than people suppose.”

“But why would the killer come here between his visits to the scene of the crime?” the vicar asked.

“I am sure that he had his reasons”, Sherlock said. “I rather fear that this will prove to be one of the cases that my medical friend will be unable write up in the foreseeable future but I hope to have it solved shortly.”

I stared at him in surprise.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I have mentioned before that Sherlock's brother Randall was not always as helpful as he might be (as in the Pope was not always as Protestant as he might be). But this time the information Sherlock had requested was waiting for us back at the hotel. Sherlock read it and smiled.

“We should go and see Doctor Winchelsey after dinner”, he said. “I am sure that he would like to know who murdered the man next door.”

“He is not the only one!” I said, pouting.

“You know what happens when you pout, John”, he growled. 

My trousers suddenly became very tight. He smirked at me then ambled off to sort out dinner while I fought for composure.

As usual I lost.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I have advised my friend that he will be unable to write up this particular case, at least for now”, Sherlock said as we sat with Doctor Winchelsey in his garden. It was a fine June evening though the wind was still contriving to make an even bigger mess of a certain someone's hair. “With a matter of such international importance, one must I suppose take care not to trample on diplomatic sensibilities.”

We both stared at him in surprise.

 _“International_ importance?” the doctor asked.

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “It concerns the collapse of Panama Canal Company.”

I have mentioned before the chronic instability of the Third French Republic, established after the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-1871 which had seen German troops marching through Paris and the loss of the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine. We had ourselves already been caught in the fallout of the Boulanger Affair not long before our flight to the Unites States, and the collapse of the Panama Canal Company had been yet another scandal caused by the standard governmental malfeasance that seems endemic these days. The canal across the Panama Isthmus in northern Columbia which would have linked the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans had been abandoned in 1889 but the French government had stymied the necessary work to close down the company, with the result that French investors had lost thousands of pounds while those in power had as per usual been protected from the repercussions of their incompetence. For some inexplicable reason this had made a lot of people less than happy with the government.

“A new company was set up earlier this year”, Sherlock explained, “and that forced a lot of information out into the public arena, doubtless to the annoyance of many in high office. It is my belief that Mr. Jacques Ballard was in possession of even more damning evidence of governmental corruption. I do not know what that evidence was, but clearly the fellow feared for his life. Why else would he not only abandon his homeland but come to this wild spot miles from anywhere, yet somewhere with coastal access so further flight could be effected if necessary?”

“Almost inevitably, it becomes necessary. Every government of any size has excrescences like my unlovely brother Randall, men and sometimes even women who will do dirty work 'for the good of the country' up to and including arranging the 'removal' of anyone classified as 'enemies of the state' - in other words people that those currently in power fear will expose their malfeasance. My brother confirmed my suspicions that one such person, travelling under the name 'Monsieur Henri Dubuque of the Paris Police' left France early on Sunday, ostensibly for a holiday in England.”

“Sunday?” the doctor asked, clearly surprised.

“Sunday”, Sherlock confirmed. “Monsieur Dubuque, as we shall have to continue to call him since we do not know his real name, arrives in London that evening and is able to secure a berth on the night sleeper - first-class at the French government's expense, no doubt – as far as Newcastle. Arriving there in the small hours of Monday morning he has already arranged to charter a boat, thinking to surprise his target by arriving that way.”

“But Mr. Ballard is playing for his life and he has very wisely taken certain precautions. I would wager that he had and still has his own supporters in the French government who doubtless alerted him to the impending danger; I suspect that the package sent to him contained the warning. The two men in the cottage hare therefore ready for the attack.”

“It is now early Monday morning. Monsieur Dubuque has endured a choppy and unpleasant journey up the Northumberland coast and has been deposited on a beach near to his destination. It is a short walk to the isolated cottage and he probably waits some time so that he can be sure to enter unnoticed.”

“Monday?” Doctor Winchelsey asked, clearly confused. “But I saw him go in on Tuesday.”

“Actually you did not”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Monsieur Dubuque enters Mr. Ballard's cottage some time on Monday and is immediately set upon and chloroformed by the two men inside. He was then kept unconscious all that day and overnight.”

“From the physical descriptions that you gave me, doctor, it would have to have been the manservant Alain who played the part of Monsieur Dubuque thereon. It had to be established that the man did not reach the cottage until _Tuesday_ , for reasons that will shortly become clear. Still on Monday, Alain goes to either Newham or Lucker and travels to Belford, where the stationmaster did remember 'the foreigner' alighting from the Newcastle train. Mr. Ballard must have known who to expect as he had the wig ready as part of the illusion. Alain also spends a night in one of the hostelries there as 'Monsieur Dubuque'; I am sure that the police have already established which one.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Because of the otherwise incomprehensible disinterest about a murder of a national from a country supposed to be Great Britain's ally and committed on English soil”, he said. “As we have seen on more than one previous occasion the police only drop a case when pressured by someone important, most often in government. I suspect that it was not my lounge-lizard of a brother because otherwise he might not have been so helpful, although given that Mother has warned him to behave better in future Or Else, it might have been plain fear!”

 _She might even go so far as to read him another of her dreadful stories_ , I thought hopefully.

“To continue”, Sherlock said, shaking his head at me in a way that was just annoying, “on Tuesday morning Alain continues as Monsieur Dubuque and goes to the church to pray, making sure that he speaks briefly to the vicar. He is fortunate that the railway station lies some distance from the town as it enables him to change back to being himself, as whom he purchases a return ticket to Berwick thus establishing his own alibi.”

“He is pressed for time at this point. I cannot be sure of what he does next but I note from the timetable that the down train leaves Belford at the same time as the up one. I think that he made sure that he was seen boarding the Berwick train then contrives to get himself onto the Newcastle train which will take him back in the direction of the cottage. He then gets out at either Newham or Lucker where he has a horse ready and rides quickly back to the cottage, stopping somewhere along the way to once again become 'Monsieur Dubuque' once more. He makes sure that you, doctor, see what you think is that gentleman walking by even though the real Monsieur Dubuque is actually lying chloroformed a few yards away.”

“But not for long. The manservant's return spells the end for the governmental assassin. Mr. Ballard dispatches him and leaves quickly by the back door, and after yelling in shock his accomplice sprints after him leaving a dead body for you. Doctor Winchelsey, to find. There were doubtless various identifying personal objects placed on the body to complete the deception.”

There was a stunned silence.

“They played me for a fool”, Doctor Winchelsey said dully.

“You had no way of knowing”, Sherlock said comfortingly. “So to finish. Master and servant leave most likely by boat and sail up the coast. The railway line sticks close by for much of the way to Berwick so it is easy to drop Alain off not far from a station – most likely Beal which serves Holy Island - so that he can return home and 'discover' the crime. Mr. Ballard then sails back to somewhere near Seahouses, planning that Alain will be able to rejoin him the following morning.”

“In the cottage 'Mr. Ballard' is seemingly dead and his killer has doubtless fled to France. Her Majesty's Government quickly sees this for the explosive mess that it has the potential to be, namely that an agent of a foreign country has managed to get into England for a couple of days, murder someone in broad daylight, and then get out again without having been detected. The message is quickly passed down to drop the case; Great Britain does not need cause for still further tensions with our possible ally right now. I am sure that the conveniently discovered will of Mr. Ballard will soon appear and state that he wished to be buried at sea, and the British government will be so obliging that they will do this before remembering to inform their French allies.”

“Who tried to murder one of their own citizens on British soil!”, I muttered still shocked at all this. “How could they hope to get away with it?”

“They almost did”, Sherlock pointed out. “But when Paris eventually comes to realize that one of their agents has been killed in such circumstances - well, _they_ are hardly going to be running to the newspapers, are they?”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was still feeling shocked when we left Seahouses the following day and our carriage rolled through the leafy Northumberland lanes back to Chathill Station. I was also feeling a little down because my hopes of seeing Stevie before we returned to London had been scuppered by a reply to the telegram I had sent yesterday which told me that he, Henrietta and the boys were off to Edinburgh for a week's holiday starting today. I walked out onto the cold up platform and sighed heavily.

“I know something that will make you feel better, John.”

I would like to make clear that the noise I emitted at that precise moment was a most manly exclamation of surprise. Using a broad definition of the term 'manly' (and 'exclamation'). And now I was going to forever associate this long, cold platform with Sherlock-elicited erections. Damnation!

“How?” I muttered moving instinctively closer to the human heater.

He took my hand and I felt a railway ticket being pushed into it. Looking down I saw that Sherlock had purchased a first-class one for me. Except....

“Your brother and sister-in-law are waiting for you to join them”, he said softly, “and I took the liberty of arranging cover at the surgery for your time away.”

It was the bitter wind off the sea that was making my eyes water. Mostly. Even if we had not been the only people on the platform I would still have taken him in my arms and kissed him. I held him close and only the distant sound of the approaching train made me let go and hurry to cross to the northbound platform.

“Oh, and John?” he called after me. I turned only a few yards away from him.

“Yes?”

“Remember that when you return to London, we shall have seven days of sex to catch up on!”

It was damnably difficult to scuttle across the tracks with a full-on erection, and the bastard knew that full well. Lord but I loved that man so much!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: The new canal company did resume work on the incomplete project but soon things once more ground to a halt. It was bought out by the United States in 1903 who resumed work on it and also incited a revolt by the local people to create the new state of Panama. When the canal was finished in 1914 the new country leased the zone around the canal to the United States.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Newcastle-on-Tyne was, unlike the rest of Northumberland, loyal to the new Hanoverian dynasty rather than the Stuarts after the Glorious Revolution of 1688. This led their enemies to term them Geordies (supporters of King George) much as said enemies were termed Jacobites (supporters of King James the Second and Seventh, Latin 'Iacobus')._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	13. Case 192: The Adventure Of The Monocled Mountaineer ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Deprived of John for two whole weeks (possibly even longer), Sherlock is distracted by an encounter with his twin Sherrinford, this time over a mountaineer who may not be all that he seems.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I stared at John in shock, wondering if I had heard him right.

“Two whole weeks? I said , my lip maybe very slightly quivering at the dreadful prospect. 

He nodded glumly.

“I owe Peter so much”, he said, “and you know how he is every time Anne gets pregnant.”

“He has enough practice being like it”, I said not at all mulishly. “This will be his eleventh!”

“London's population keeps growing, and he has to play his part”, he smiled. “He is down with this damn bug that keeps popping up everywhere, and she is due in less than two weeks.”

“No sex for two weeks”, I not-grumbled. “Maybe even longer! That is just not fair!”

“We were friends for twenty years before we had sex”, he pointed out far too reasonably for my liking. 

I scowled anyway.

“So if I offered to make it up to you by letting you do whatever you want to me for a whole day when I come back”, he said impishly, “would that make it any better?”

The bastard! He really was trying to kill me through sex! Well just let him try!

On the other hand, two weeks gave me plenty of time to draw up a nice, long list.....

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Normally such a request as this would not have deprived me of my love, but I knew that he was right about our friends. Both Sir Peter Greenwood and his wife were wonderful people but they were worry-warts of the first order, and John would have to sleep at their house until the baby arrived (the baronet himself was sleeping at one of his clubs). Plus there was the not insignificant fact that had it not been for the baronet and his excellent shooting skills, I would not have had John now.

But I was still to be denied having the man I loved for at least two weeks, maybe even more. That child had damn well better not be late!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had a few minor matters on hand which did little to distract me during my love's horrible absence, but as things turned out I was also to have a more important case which would bring someone new into my life, at least at a distance. I returned from a walk two days after John's departure to be informed that a gentleman had called and had been shown up to our rooms. I was quite surprised – given the number of people out there who still had reason to do me harm, the staff at 221B knew better than this as a rule – but when I saw the card I smiled. It was my twin Sherrinford, and when I mounted I found him looking healthy and tanned. He had greatly assisted me in ridding the world of the Moriarty Menace and had gone back to the States for a few months to sort matters out there once the last of those vermin had been sent to join the Professor in hell. 

“You look down, brother”, he said. “You cannot be missing him already, surely?”

That he knew of my love's absence was annoying but not unexpected.

“It is only for two weeks”, I said.

He looked pointedly at me.

“Two weeks and three days”, he corrected. “But at least it will be a healthy boy. Six pounds and nine ounces. They will call him Anson, but one cannot have everything.”

I sighed. The Good Lord had certainly been exercising his oft-quoted sense of humour when he had landed me with this fellow as a twin. But then like with Sir Peter Greenwood, had it not been for him I might very well not be in a position to grouse.

“Indeed you might not”, he said with an annoying smile (I so hated people who were too smug). “I have a rather important problem and I need your assistance, brother.”

I stared at him in astonishment.

 _”You_ need _my_ assistance?” I asked.

“Knowing the future does not, contrary to what many believe, solve all one's problems”, he said. “Although I did enjoy collecting my accumulator winnings from a rather unpleasant bookies in Hammersmith the other day.”

As I said, annoyingly smug. But he was my brother.

“How can I help?” I asked.

“Have you heard of a gentleman called Mr. Victor Trevor?”

The name was annoyingly elusive, and I was sure that I had heard John mention it in connection with something. Most likely from those social pages that he never ever read, unless the newspaper just happened to have fallen open at that particular page just as he was passing it.

“He sounds familiar from somewhere”, I said.

“He was in the newspapers four months back, just before you and John became, as our mother so wonderfully puts it, 'together together'.”

“What was he in the news for?” I asked.

“He was the first gentleman to climb the infamous Pope's Hat mountain in the Alps”, he said. “Not the highest peak down there but its final ascent is said to be close to impossible. It was a multinational race; the French, Italians and Germans had men there but he beat them all and planted the Union Jack at the summit. The Nation was quite proud of him.”

I looked sharply at him for his choice of words.

“'Was'?” I asked. “Why not 'is'?”

“I should clarify that they still are proud of him”, he said, “and will remain so until the newspapers come out this afternoon. Last night his mountain guide, a gentleman of Oriental extraction called Hui, was murdered. Among his papers there was a note stating that Mr. Trevor was unable to complete the last part of the climb and sent him to the peak to plant the old red, white and blue.”

I could see at once what he meant by this, for it was like Watson's traitorous grandfather all over again. If it did come to be believed that this Mr. Trevor had lied about he himself having been the first man to reach the peak, he would be socially ruined. As I knew all too well, honour was everything in our society.

“You do not I suppose know who killed this 'Hui'?” I asked hopefully.

To my surprise he blushed.

“I only became aware when Mr. Trevor was affected upon the discovery of that note”, he said.

I looked at him curiously.

“I thought that it was only family and people close to you for whom you could foresee things”, I said.

“Exactly”, he said.

I looked at him in confusion.

“Mr. Trevor will one day be very close to me”, he smiled, “although I am not sure that we will ever embark on that list you that you are drawing up for John's return. I think that number fourteen may be physically impossible by the way, or at least for me what with that stupid monocle of Victor's.”

I blushed fiercely. _Brothers!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherrinford was as ever right (about the newspaper, not number fourteen in both our cases and he could really learn not to comment on some things!). The afternoon papers must not have made pleasant reading for his Mr. Trevor. There was a picture of the fellow in the 'Times' and I must say he looked the atypical Victorian adventurer, complete with a fine moustache and a pair of rather ferocious sideburns. He was a few years younger than my brother and, I suppose, attractive in a standard way although not of course a patch on John. 

I sent a telegram to Miss St. Leger to ask her about certain points of the case, and was surprised when the lady herself called by just a few hours later.

“I looked into what you asked”, she said, “but something happened that I thought might not have reached you so I made other inquiries as well.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“This 'Hui' character”, she said. “One of his relatives from darkest wherever he came from is in London, and they arranged for his body to be shipped home for burial.”

I was immediately suspicious. Mountain guides were notoriously poorly paid especially when one considered the dangers that they undertook, so how had a relative of this fellow been able to afford the massive expense of freezing and shipping a body so far? Come to that, how had a relative of theirs got all the way to London?

“Has the body been shipped yet?” I asked. She shook her head.

“It is leaving on the 'Minotaur' from the docks this evening”, she said. 

“Where is it now?” I asked.

“In the warehouse ready to be loaded”, she said. “Why?”

I grinned.

“Because someone is about to be seized by Her Majesty's Government!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It would have been good if I could have relied on Randall to do the decent thing for once and help me without prompting, but I did not have the time to play his games so I contacted Luke. The bastard wrote back that Benji had him 'tied up' at the moment (he too really needed to learn about what I did and did not wish to know, damn him!) but agreed to meet me later down by the docks with the men that I had asked for. He had better, considering the bad mental image that he had saddled me with!

As I had expected the warehouse was guarded by a number of men, but Luke's own men soon put paid to them and we were inside with the coffin.

“You are after dead people now, Sherlock?” my cousin grinned.

“Better than some live people who do not know what to keep out of telegrams”, I muttered. The bastard was visibly limping, and I made a mental note that when Benji's wife gave birth next month I would slip the behemoth some extra 'supplies' for his post-christening emotional workout on the annoyance beside me.

“At least Benji knows what not to keep out of me!” he said cheerily. 

I briefly considered pushing him into the Thames but whatever lived in those grey waters did not deserve that and, more importantly, I would then have had to face Benji's terrible Sad Face which was beyond even my endurance, and indeed which was likely part of the cause of my cousin's current poor state. Instead I unscrewed the ties on the top of the coffin until I was able to remove the lid and look down into.....

 _”A mannequin?”_ Luke said incredulously.

“Better that that someone killed to take the place of the fellow who should be here”, I said, thinking back to the Abbas Parva case. “Ask your men to move it over to the light, please; my photographer should be here in a few minutes.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The 'Times' the following morning had rather better headlines as far as Mr. Victor Trevor was concerned. An anonymous tip-off had led to police arresting someone in the docks who had turned out to be none other than the supposedly dead 'Hui', and some other kind person had also supplied the newspaper with a picture of his coffin and the 'body' therein. Four French government officials were being held in connection with the attempt to besmirch the character of a brave English gentleman. 

I was sure that my twin had read the news (if he had not known about it before it was off the presses!) but I decided to go round to his hotel and see if all had worked out as he had wanted. I had made some less than brilliant decisions in my time; lying to Watson and losing him for three years was clearly top of that list and my decision to wander round the town of Dingwall of an evening back in 'Eighty-Five a very definite second, but today clearly made it on that list.

Sherrinford was in a quite modest room at a quite modest hotel, and the pyjamas and dressing-gown (which no gentleman outside 221B should be wearing by mid-morning) were also of modest quality. The only thing not the least bit modest was the smirk a mile wide as he introduced me to what little remained of Mr. Victor Trevor. He might have been as handsome as his photograph in the newspaper but with his tattered look, his bedraggled features and the fact that he was barely conscious, it was hard to tell.

“We have celebrated the news already”, Sherrinford grinned. “Victor, Vanquished!”

“You are terrible!” I sighed.

“Wait until we try number twenty-seven on that list of yours”, he grinned. “Poor fellow will not be able to climb the stairs, let alone a mountain!”

I sighed as I left them to it. I really had terrible relations, especially those who smirked just because they had reduced their man to a quivering wreck. Thank the Lord that I at least was not like that.

I definitely heard a snigger through the door, and likely should have sped my departure rather as if was followed by a loud oath from the mountaineer. How had even my twin brother managed to start number twenty-seven that quickly?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	14. Case 193: The Adventure Of Lemon And Lyme ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Reunited with his beloved John, Sherlock takes what is left of the good doctor down to deepest Dorsetshire to answer a priest's prayer - about his annoying brother who is making everyone's lives a misery. And Sherlock knows all about annoying brothers!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Master Anson Peter Greenwood entered this world at just after half-past three on the afternoon of Saturday July the eighteenth, eighteen hundred and ninety-four. His father was still 'in quarantine' after his recent illness so could not see his latest family member despite the boy most inconsiderately arriving three days late (as some insufferably smug twin of mine had foretold), but the following day he returned home and John was finally, _finally_ able to come back to Baker Street.

It was Tuesday before what was left of him limped from our room, glaring at me as if I was smirking in some way which I was (mostly) not. I certainly did not look as proud as my twin had over poor Mr. Trevor, who even some of the newspapers were noting had not been seen round much of late since the recent false allegations against him. Still, I suppose that I was grateful to my twin in a way, not just for distracting me during John's absence but for that suggestion about the long socks. Both number fourteen _and_ number twenty-seven had been possible by the way, although unlucky for some number thirteen had been a close run thing and number thirty-six was now restricted to once a year after it had made John pass out.

As dear Benji would say, _I was the man!_

John took nearly a minute after reaching his chair before he was finally seated, letting out cries of pain all the way down. I did not smirk (much).

“Never again!” he muttered. “Next time someone needs me, they can bloody well whistle. I will not survive another welcome home like that!”

“Do not forget that you have work tomorrow”, I reminded him with a smile. He had been excused his regular surgery day which was then a Monday, but had promised to go in on Wednesday to cover another doctor's absence.

“Damn bumpy roads and cabs with no suspension”, he groaned. “And far too many people at the surgery have taken to smirking when I arrive of a morning.”

“Terrible how some people smirk”, I agreed.

He looked at me suspiciously, but that was a mistake as any movement just now..... I only hoped there no maids on the staircase for they would surely have heard his girly shri..... his very manly expression of surprise.

Mercifully for John I was not only gentle with him that day but also had jar of his favourite aftercare unguent, which had him uttering noises that only a cruel person would have called coos of delight. So he managed to get through his day at the surgery well enough, although I would wager that he found the stairs of 221B a challenge.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The day after John's surgery day dawned bright and clear, and after a long session of manly embracing which in no way, shape or form resembled that thing that started with the third letter of the alphabet and rhymed with huddling, my love was back to his usual self. After a delicious breakfast we worked our way through the morning letters, most of which were the usual thing except for one.

“A Dorsetshire postmark”, I observed. “Thankfully it cannot be the ghastly Mr. Somerville Hayland Merriweather; it is right the other side of the county.”

I could see that he too was remembering our adventure in the Boscombe Valley, the first encounter albeit tangentially with the vile Professor Moriarty. I hurried on.

“Lyme Regis”, I said. “A curious place, and one of the few that I have ever wanted to visit. That great writer Miss Austen seemed to favour it, and I read recently that yet another attempt to link it to the main line at nearby Axminster has come to naught†.”

He sniggered.

“I would have thought that after your mother's 'efforts' in creating 'Prodding And Plunges', you would not like to be reminded of that authoress's works?” he smiled.

I scowled at him. I had managed to forget about that!

“The town intrigues me because its geography means it has barely changed over the centuries”, I said, “which given the massive growth we have seen in some places is very rare these days. I particularly enjoyed Miss Austen's skilful portrayal of even her heroes and heroines as flawed, which most people are. Besides, Mother always sets her 'efforts' elsewhere; 'Sense And Sensitivity' is set in London and even features a guest appearance by our own Benji where he enters bearing a tray - _without using his hands!”_

As I had known he would, John scowled at the reminder of my friend.

“That man is sex-mad”, he grumbled. “Some people!”

“Some people indeed”, I said. “For example, I tend to want sexual gratification at some most irregular hours!”

I deliberately ran my tongue around my lips, and maybe enjoyed his suddenly rapid breathing a tad more than was appropriate.

“Whoistheletterfrom?” he asked, maybe just a tad quickly.

I smiled at his obvious deflection, but let it pass and glanced down the letter.

“The vicar of St. Michael, a Reverend Harold Pugh, asks if we can..... oh.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“If we can what?” he asked as I read the letter again to make sure that I had not misunderstood it. 

I had not.

“If we can get his brother to shut up for five minutes!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Since I had nothing of import on hand at this time (except of course the vitally important task of reducing the man that I loved to a happy pile of goo as frequently as possible), we decided to go down to Lyme that very day. Fortunately the London & South Western Railway ran trains direct to Axminster from where we could easily take a cab or hire a carriage, and we had a pleasant journey down apart from some annoying person's repeated remarks that we were solving the case of the Lyme Lemon. He would pay for that once we were safely back in Baker Street!

Come to that, there was always the train back.....

Axminster, which as everyone knows is famous for its carpets, is in Devonshire through which we had to briefly pass to reach our destination. It was a most pleasant little place and I promised John that we would make some time for ourselves there 'before we return to London and you know what'. It was a wondrous thing, being able to make a man as solid as John Hamish Watson tremble like that. And making him have to carry his bag before him as we left the station because.... you know.

_Yes you do!_

A cab took us to the coast and Lyme which was indeed as beautiful as I had hoped. At the time it was well known not only for Miss Austen's work 'Persuasion' which was partly set there, but also for the great Mary Anning, the lady who did so much for the world of fossils and was treated so poorly by the (male) scientists of her day. I had always thought that ladies like her had done so much more to advance the cause of female rights that some of those who claimed to support it today, and who seemed to think that shouting and screaming at people would somehow convince them of the rightness of their cause. All it had made me do was to carry a set of spare ear-plugs in my wallet!

“It is a nice town”, John said. “I can see why they did do well in the English Civil War.”

I looked at him in confusion. History was most definitely not an interest of mine, but I had learned through my beloved that sometimes it had a bearing on present events, especially in this country.

“What happened here?” I asked.

“Prince Maurice, younger brother of the much more famous Prince Rupert, spent weeks besieging the place but had to give up when the army of Essex approached”, he said. “It was a rare parliamentarian outpost in the West Country, and the fellow who defied him behind nothing more than some hastily thrown up earth walls was Robert Blake. He later performed a similar miracle at Taunton in Somersetshire, but was written out of history after the Restoration because he had been on the 'wrong' side.”

That was why I and John fitted so well together, I thought, in our shared desire for justice. Well, that and the sex.

He just knew from the way that I was looking at him exactly what I was thinking and his eyes widened in alarm. Fortunately (for him at least) we had just reached the impressively large church which towered above the town. That saved him for now, at least!

For now....

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The Reverend Harold Pugh was a fairly nondescript fellow; dark-haired, slim, about sixty years of age and of average height. He thanked us both for coming down (he scored extra marks for including John as some people still failed to do) and we sat down to coffee and biscuits.

“I do hope that you can manage to do something about Dion, sirs”, he said.

“Your brother is called Dion?” I asked, surprised.

“It is short for Dionysius”, he explained, “and he is in fact my half-brother. We are nothing alike – I thank the Lord for that fact daily! - our mother still residing in the town. He is ten years my junior although he does not look it as he always dresses older; his father was a former slave and that, however unchristian of me to say it, is something that he _never_ lets anyone forget!”

 _For a man of the cloth to say something like that_ , I thought, _his sibling had to have been bad indeed._

“I take cases on whether they interest me or not”, I said, “and persuading someone to cease talking is something new, although I could name several relatives and many political figures who would benefit from it. I take it that your mother is therefore your common parent?”

The vicar nodded glumly.

“You see”, he said, “my father was just a quiet tradesman in town while Dion's was a freed slave who, as they say, 'made good'. He came to England and initially did very well for himself, buying up much land in Dorsetshire and Devonshire, but there was a financial crash and he lost everything. He was ruined, and one day he just walked out of our mother's house and never came back.”

“How does this relate to your half-brother being exceptionally garrulous?” I asked.

“Dion is convinced that the local landowner at the time it happened, Lord Abbotsbury, was to blame for his father's flight”, he explained. “It is his son Reynold up at Combpyne now of course, a bit of a nincompoop but harmless enough, yet Dion is always on at him one way or another, and people around here are fed up with it. Poor Ray dares not show his face in town any more, which is just wrong.”

“We shall do what we can”, I promised. “Where might we see your brother 'in action' any time soon, pray?”

“There is a meeting of the Church Guild tomorrow evening”, the vicar said, “and of course he will be attending. It will be in the Church Hall.”

“Should we bring earplugs?” asked someone who did not want to sit down on our trip back to the capital. He really was getting worse!

Yes, I had been thinking much the same but that was not the point!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I sent off a telegram to Miss St. Leger asking her to look into Mr. Lemon, then John and I spent a pleasant afternoon looking around the town. The stone harbour was I thought particularly attractive.

“One can almost imagine some lusty fisherman, waiting for his handsome and dashing sea-captain to return from his voyages”, John said dreamily.

“Indeed”, I smiled. “I suppose you mean like Lowen?”

His dreamy smile at once became a scowl. He did not like our Cornish friend at all, despite the fellow once having helped to save my life.

“I doubt that he would wait”, he snipped. “His sort never do.”

I refrained from telling him that I actually knew that Lowen, despite the nature of his profession, was if not waiting then resigned to never having what he wanted. A particularly handsome Italian gentleman called Mr. Salerio Palazzi had recently come into Sweyn's employ and Lowen had been totally smitten with him but alas! the fellow was married if unhappily, and for all that he sold his body for profit my Cornish friend had more than his fair share of morals. Unfortunately for him, and mad worse by the fact that Mrs. Palazzi had none whatsoever.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had expected to have to take several days over this case, but once again I had underestimated the hyper-efficient Miss St. Leger. My reply came back just hours later and I was able to read through and digest the contents of a most interesting telegram. I would have shared it with John, but he always pouted so endearingly when I did not that.... well, I did not.

I sighed when I had done reading it. Some people! I then went to wire London and ask my friend Mr. Brunswick how he might be set for an emergency trip down to the West Country to obtain something for me. Fortunately he was free and sure enough, by the following mid-day the document was in my hands. Along with a rather interesting note attached to it by its writer.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

When we arrived to the hall there was no mistaking Mr. Lemon, a portly and well-dressed gentleman who looked nothing like his half-brother and apparently had the ability to talk without ever drawing breath. He was as mentioned about fifty years of age and his skin was not that dark; I suppose that technically one might have described him as a half-caste, although I do not like that term. 

Within but a few minutes of our arrival I could empathize with the other committee members, whose faces were clearly registering just how fed up they were. John had been right about those ear-plugs, damn him! Fortunately the meeting soon moved on to any other business, and I took the opportunity to rise.

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, “and I have something important to say about a person in this town.”

“We have heard of you”, Mr. Lemon said grandly. “How may we be of assistance, sir?”

I looked hard at him.

“By stopping your lying ways, for one thing!”

He reeled at that, but made a swift recovery.

“Be careful, Mr. Holmes”, he said angrily. “There are laws in this country to stop people like you from spreading hatred based on a gentleman's skin colour.”

“You are no gentleman”, I said firmly, “and I can prove that you are a liar as well as a bully. I know, for example, about the Coastal Route.”

Mr. Lemon went pale, as well he might.

“What do you mean, sir?” the chairman of the Guild asked.

“Back around the year 1860”, I began, “there was a long and bitter argument about the best route to connect London to Exeter by the London & South Western Railway. They had reached both Dorchester and Yeovil by then, so there were two possible routes westwards, known as the Central via Crewkerne and Honiton, and the Coastal which would have run through the many seaside towns including Lyme. It was a bitter and hard-fought battle and victory eventually went to the inland route – but as in any war, there were casualties.”

I fixed Mr. Lemon with a look. He was clearly eyeing the door and his chances of making his escape.

“Peter, the then Lord Abbotsbury, was the major landowner in this area and he of course would have benefited greatly from a Coastal route”, I said. “However he did not abuse his position, and indeed when he became aware that someone was buying large amounts of land further along the route he became concerned, as his own indications were, correctly, that the inland route would win the day. That of course would have meant that the person buying all that land in the expectation that it would make him rich when he sold it to the railway might well be ruined.”

“The nobleman was as I said a most honourable fellow and he found out who the mystery buyer was – a Mr. Jupiter Lemon. He very generously warned Mr. Lemon of what might likely happen but alas! his warnings were ignored, and when the Central route was chosen Mr. Lemon was ruined. He did however write a note to His Lordship thanking him for his warning....”

“This is all stuff and nonsense!” Mr. Dionysius Lemon said forcibly. “All we have is words, from someone whose so-called adventures are barely credible anyway!”

I smiled pleasantly at him.

“Words”, I said. _”Also, this!”_

I brandished the letter that Mr. Brunswick had liberated from his house.

“In this your father admits not only that he was wrong to disregard Lord Abbotsbury's warnings”, I said, “but goes on to say that he was learned his lesson and will be leaving a letter for his young son Dionysius about what happened. You _knew_ when you read that letter that your father's ruination had nothing to do with Lord Abbotsbury – yet you still went after his son, driving him from his own town.”

The muttering from the Guild suddenly seemed loud in the ensuing silence, and the looks on their faces were far from friendly. I rather suspected that the days of Mr. Dionysius Lemon making a nuisance of himself around this town were numbered. As in less than one.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day we woke to the unsurprising news that Mr. Dionysius Lemon had decided to embark for a new life in the United States. Indeed he left before sunset the day before, which was perhaps a good thing as there had been a very large and very angry mob outside his house this morning who gave the local constable three cheers when he told them the news.

“I do not understand why some people do that”, John said as we walked along the seafront. “People were only going to be sore about it when they eventually found out.”

“I agree”, I said. “After we have sampled the delights of both Lyme and Axminster, so will you be.”

“I will be what?” he asked, puzzled.

“Sore”, I grinned. “All the way back to London Town!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Reader, he was!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
_† It was not until 1903 that the line from Axminster to Lyme Regis finally opened. Unfortunately Lyme's steep hills forced the station to be built on the edge of the town rendering the line vulnerable to bus competition during its existence, and it closed in 1965 although the station buildings were saved and re-erected at Alresford on the Mid-Hants Railway. The Lyme branch has been identified as only a second-phase prospect for reopening, i.e. one that would require substantial more housing in the area to merit, so this seems unlikely._  
_‡ 1837. The Act abolishing the slave trade passed in 1833 but the West Indies colonies, dependent on the evil business as they had been, were granted four more years before they had to enforce it._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	15. Case 194: Vich Ian Vor ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Sherlock returns to Wigtownshire where he once helped a young athlete, and as his pestilential brother Randall demands (not asks, of course) that he help avert another crisis, both Holmeses find out that what goes around, comes around.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

One of the few things that John and I only rarely talked about was what later became termed the Early Hiatus, those three years when due primarily to my own crass stupidity he went off to Egypt to minister to our brave soldiers while I toured Wales and Scotland in an attempt to keep away from reminders of him and my own crass stupidity. I had only briefly mentioned some happenings during that time – and yes, those had included Dingwall and my subsequent aversion to seeing stuffing on my plate! - but generally it was not spoken about. The only sad part of it was that there were some cases in that time which I would quite liked to have added to the Sherlock canon but obviously could not do without adding most or all of them, otherwise it would have evoked the perennial cry of Sherlockians as to 'but what were you doing at such and such a time and was it so important that you cannot tell us?' However this particular small case brought back not just a memory but a gentleman from one of those cases, and showed that sometimes one good turn does actually get another.

It all began, annoyingly, with a visit from my least favourite lounge-lizard, and it was wrong of John to sulk just because I would not let him install man-traps, or at least lounge-lizard traps, on our stairs. Besides Randall had annoyed Mrs. Hudson once before and there was always the chance that she might tire of him and shoot him. That would of course have been terrible as I would never have been able to find the landlady who had done it, let alone having to dispose of the body for her. Then again the coal-bunker was rather large....

John was still a bad influence on me. Or maybe a good one in this case!

“I have been to Wigtownshire”, I said after what seemed like hours of my sibling's verbiage, “and it is I remember a fair-sized county. Just because some government official has gone to ground there, I can hardly be expected to comb through everywhere from Newton Stewart to Portpatrick on the off-chance that I stumble across him.”

“The fellow stole important classified information”, Randall said loftily, “of the sort that foreign governments might well kill for.”

I looked hard at him.

“Bearing in mind that anything you say may prompt me to eject you bodily through that window without warning”, I said coldly, _”what_ classified information exactly?”

He almost managed to avoid glancing at John, and shuddered when he caught my glare. Good. 

“Someone is trying to start a Scottish separatists organization to go alongside the Irish one”, he said sulkily. “They call it Vich Ian Vor, Lord alone knows why.”

I looked expectantly at John, who could be relied upon to know such things. And likely to open the window if I felt compelled to eject Randall that way. He would even check the pavement below first, because he was helpful like that.

“From a character in Sir Walter Scott's famous work 'Waverley'”, he said crisply. “He was a supporter of Bonnie Prince Charlie's failed revolt of 1745 and paid the price for that with his life. He is a stronger character in the book than the title one, really.”

“Strong or not, he is a menace to us now”, Randall said. “We had a whole list of these separatists but there was only one copy for security, and Mr. Jack Duttine has taken it!”

“Wait a minute”, John said warily. “'Waverley' was based in the Highlands, the power-base of Bonnie Prince Charlie. This is about as far away as you can get while still staying in Scotland.”

It warmed my heart when he annoyed Randall like that.

“Mr. Duttine came from an island somewhere there, called Whithorn”, Randall said. “If you need no other motivation, Mother is having another of her readings this weekend!”

That was, I had to admit, a rather good motivation. As was his behaviour – in his case, to send Mother a telegram from Euston so that she could stop him slipping away and give him a 'memorable' weekend!

As I said, John was oftentimes a really good influence on me!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Randall left us the file he had on Mr. Duttine which, although there was no photograph, did include a description. Although I doubted that the government clerk would have been happy to know that his employers considered that he looked like 'a young funeral director'!

We decamped to Euston Station via Miss St. Leger's offices. Not that I did not trust Randall to have told us everything but... all right, I did not trust Randall to have told us everything. Then it was that telegram to Mother so she could catch the pest as he tried to reach Paddington, and we headed on north to Scotland. We had to change at Carlisle, Dumfries and Newton Stewart, and reaching the last of these too late for the last train to Whithorn we found an inn where we slept fairly well despite being in two separate rooms as that was all the place had. But then it was July, I supposed.

The following day we took the first train of the day south to Whithorn where we still had a carriage ride to get to the village of Isle of Whithorn a few miles further south. Wigtownshire is as I mentioned in my notes for my adventure some nine years back made up of three parts; the Rhinns where I had helped young Mr. Cary Ellis in Port Logan, the Moors to the north of the Newton Stewart to Stranraer railway line and road, and the Machars to the south. In this semi-wilderness we were apparently expected to find just one man.

At least there were none of Mother's stories lurking in the gorse-bushes! Or so I hoped; one never quite knew with her!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Whithorn was a pleasant little town, and it struck me as more English than Scots. I mentioned this to John and he nodded.

“This area was briefly part of the ancient English kingdom of Northumbria”, he said, “and there was a bishopric here for a while. Even after it became part of Scotland the Galvidians were always minded to do their own thing.”

We checked into a decent-looking hotel then secured a carriage for the ride to Isle of Whithorn. John explained that it had been an island until late last century when land reclamation had effectively made it part of the Scottish mainland. 

“Sex on an island that is no longer an island”, I smiled. “Well, I am always up for something new.”

He nearly tumbled off the carriage. Hah!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The village named for an island was a small place but John found it enchanting, especially the chapel of St. Ninian. It seemed to me just like another ruined house although I was not so foolish as to say as much. I had not been here during my tour of Scotland having turned at Whithorn, and I was reminded just how much I had missed by not having had John around.

Then again, there was that first-class sleeper all the way from Carlisle to London. I would not miss him then!

“St. Ninian converted the southern Picts who dominated Scotland before the Scots sailed over from Ireland”, he said. “This is only a medieval chapel but there was likely a wooden one here before it, where he preached the Good Word as the old Roman world lay dying around him.”

We went around the village but there was not much to see, although I definitely had the impression that the locals were watching us for some reason. Hopefully assessing us to see if we could be trusted. But with what?

We returned to Whithorn to find that Miss St. Leger had sent up some information to us. Not a lot but it was definitely quality over quantity. I frowned as I read it.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Just Randall being Randall”, I sighed. “I suppose it was foolish of me to ever expect him to be otherwise.”

“What has he done?”

“You wondered why this Mr. Duttine had fled to Galloway”, I said. “Now we know. Randall has been trying to create a chimaera along the lines of the Spencer John Gang, in this case a Scottish separatist group that has links to Irish groups. Galloway is the connection, being so close to Ireland.”

John thought about that for a moment, then his face fell.

“Mr. Duttine came across evidence of this”, he said, “and he decamped from London as fast as his legs could carry him.”

“Randall wants to make sure that that evidence never sees the light of day”, I said. “But that cannot be. He must know that I would read it first....”

I stopped, suddenly seeing the light.

“We need to wire Miss St. Leger again”, I said firmly.

“Why?” he asked. 

“Because my brother has been devious even by his 'standards'”, I said, “but we can still beat him at his own game!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I got my answer the following day and it was much as expected. I also got a surprise when along with the telegram there was a message to say that someone was waiting to speak with me downstairs. But that was nothing as to the surprise I got when we went down.

 _”Mr. Ellis?”_ I exclaimed.

It was indeed the young athlete who I had helped avoid a painful assault at the hands of an adversary, and who had since completed his scholarship at Edinburgh University before settling there and becoming a sports teacher. But what was be doing here, at least twenty miles from his old home village?

“Bess's parents are visiting”, he explained, “and as they and I cannot stand each other she packed me off to spend time seeing old friends in Galloway. I heard that you were in the area and thought I would look you up.”

He was twenty-seven now and really did look in fine fettle, and I could sense John's unease at his presence. Fortunately this fellow was married with two children and a third due in about five months according to his last letter to me. I looked at him curiously and an idea began to form in my head.”

“You might do me a small service in this your home county, sir”, I said. “How many people do you know in these parts?”

“My mother's family came from this town, sir”, he smiled. “After all you did for me I am completely at your disposal.”

“Excellent!” I smiled. “Now, it all concerns blowing people up.”

He looked at me in astonishment.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I do not get it”, John said as we waited at Whithorn Station. 

“Not to worry”, I said, “Once we are in the sleeper, I shall make sure that you get it!”

He rolled his eyes at me. I smiled at his annoyance.

“First, Randall lied about Mr. Duttine”, I said. “He took no documents, but he did decamp to the United States having come into an inheritance there. This would have been a minor inconvenience to Randall but as ever he decided to use it to his own ends. He would create a mythical group of Scottish separatists, Mr. Duttine would have disappeared off to some remote region, then after I had tried and failed to find him a body would have been identified as his. He therefore had the enjoyment of sending me on a wild-goose chase, although since Mother caught him at Paddington thanks to the offices of Miss St. Leger, I doubt that he enjoyed his weekend much. Especially as she has just finished 'Bewitched!', the story about a witch who granted a young man's request to be 'ever ready'.”

He winced at that image, but that was only fair as I had had to suffer it too.

“And Cary - Mr. Ellis?” he asked.

I looked pointedly at him, knowing just how jealous he had been of the young fellow. He was forty-two now while I was still (just) in my thirties, and he always got that little bit more insecure when he had 'rounded a decade' and I had not.

“Mr. Ellis rounded up a large number of friends and relatives, and they filled a large file with evidence of a suddenly no longer imaginary Scottish separatist organization”, I grinned. “Before I hand it in to the government I shall be making sure that they dispatch the one person who inspired me to sort it all out.”

John chuckled at that.

“Randall in the countryside!” he smiled. “He will not know where to place his patent leather shoes!”

“Very true”, I agreed. “Fortunately I know exactly where to place things as you will soon be finding out – all the way back to London!

That shudder was _so_ enjoyable!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

All right, having to help him off the train at Euston, and the shri..... the manly expression of surprise as he traversed the huge distance between the carriage and the platform.....

Also enjoyable! Thank the Lord that I am not the sort of person who ever smirks, no matter what the provocation!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	16. Case 195: The Adventure Of Addleton Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. The dynamic duo renew their acquaintanceship with The Great Cake-Detector (Mark One)'s nephew, Sergeant Valiant LeStrade. There is an obvious suspect in a double killing – except that the fellow could not have done it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of suicide

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: This story is included in response to a request from Squire Mark Millebrande, the young boy in this story who, now grown into a fine young gentleman, has asked me to publish it in order to help quash certain unpleasant rumours surrounding his late father. These rumours were most certainly started by his unpleasant cousin Mr. Gordon Pitt, son of the Mrs. Pitt mentioned in this story. The squire has asked for and been granted the right to check my work before publication, and has declared himself pleased with my humble efforts.

I have still not worked out how I can hear Mr. I Would Not Know Modesty Unless I Fell Over It rolling his eyes from the next room, damn the fellow!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Our last case had been in distant Wigtownshire which meant a long journey to Carlisle to connect with the sleeper service back to London. On which I did not get much sleep! I may have uttered a very manly exclamation of surprise when stepping carefully down onto the platform at Euston, and that had in no way merited the smirk on the face of a certain someone responsible for my less than perfect state. And why had the London & North Western Railway gone and made their platforms half a mile long?

I shifted in my chair and thought once again about that article on how pleasure and pain – both of which I could still feel in my poor backside – were intertwined. That definitely needed further investigation in my humble opinion. Once I was capable of standing. Or moving. Or thinking of moving.

“We may be about to pay a call on our godsons.”

I looked up in surprise. Sherlock was of course sat there over his usual mound of (his and my) bacon. He had to have been at least three cups of coffee in to have managed that much coherence. 

“Sergeant LeStrade?” I asked, thinking of our friend and his fast-growing brood. The fellow had moved to distant Westmorland shortly after his marriage some years back and from what I could see was set on repopulating this county in person. He and his wife had graciously asked us to be godparents to their twin eldest sons (Tristram, the elder, was Sherlock's and Torre was mine) and they had visited London last year during Sherlock's absence when I had assisted in the unexpectedly early arrival of their sixth son, Cador. And now Mrs. LeStrade was expecting again!

Sherlock read my thoughts as per usual. 

“Indeed”, he said. “Our Valiant friend seems almost as prodigious as dear Benji, does he not?”

I scowled at the nickname as he had known I would, damn him! Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles was now possessed of ten children with my having assisted at the recent arrival of young Joseph Jackson-Giles. Some men – especially muscled ebony-skinned behemoths who I supposed might just look passably attractive in a certain light and who leered most improperly at certain consulting detectives – could not seem to keep it in their trousers. Although I had maybe smiled at the thought that after the christening Benji would as ever be dispatched to Sherlock's smirking cousin Mr. Garrick to 'work out his angst', which would render at least one government official out of commission for a few days. The thought of the government being shafted for once was a most pleasant one.

“Why?” I asked. I was not expected at the surgery but I did have one patient upon whom I had promised to call. She was also one of the far too few who paid their bills on time! 

“There was a double murder not far from his station in Westmorland last night and I should be on the scene as soon as possible”, he said clearly a little wary that he had over-presumed. “I am sorry. I thought that you no longer had to stand cover after Doctor Kent came back....”

“I promised Mrs. Beltane that I would check in on her son Frederick's recovery”, I said, “and I have some reports to drop off at the surgery. We could visit both work and her house on the way to the station. I assume that we are travelling from Euston?”

He looked relieved at my acceptance.

“Yes, or if your client is a little demanding we could catch a later train from St. Pancras”, he said, putting his tea down. “I am sorry if I assumed too much, John….”

“I am just glad to have you back”, I said. He looked pleased and I was unable to resist adding, “even if the place does look a mess!”

He gave his most mournful lost puppy look which was frankly unfair. I was a manly man and should have been inured from such things.

“I do not have anyone to tidy up after me any more!” he said mournfully as if he was being horribly deprived. Besides, it was his grabbing me the minute I had come in from work yesterday and jerking me off right there amid all his papers that was the cause of most of this wreckage! Grumpily I threw a breakfast roll at him and disappeared into my room to get ready.

All right, I _was_ smiling. That is not the point!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

As well as being a good payer (of the sort I could have done far more with), I quite liked old Mrs. Beltane whose only failing was an almost manic fear over her son Frederick's health, as he was one of those unfortunate boys who seemed able to attract every germ and bug within a twenty-mile radius. He had been suffering from a persistent cold and it had lasted for over a month, but the medicine that I had proscribed last time seemed to be working now, to my relief. I declined her offer of tea as I wanted to be off. 

The London traffic also delayed us so we headed to St. Pancras after all as the Midland Railway trains served the town of Kirkby Stephen which was near to our destination (although we could have got to the area quicker from Euston we would then have faced a long carriage ride from Tebay). Addleton Hall where the murder had taken place had its own private halt but as that lay on the North Eastern Railway's line across the Pennines it was quicker to alight at Kirkby Stephen and take a carriage. The Railway Age was a wonderful thing; so many options in such a sparsely populated area†.

This was the time when corridor coaches were beginning to be the norm and it seemed odd to recall that railway travel for the masses had only really started some two decades ago when this same Midland Railway had combined its second- and third-class compartments into what were really 'improved thirds' and forced other companies to follow suit by the arguably effective method of making a lot more money. I rather preferred the old non-corridor coaches which ensured one's privacy, and was pleased that Sherlock had secured us a non-corridor first-class compartment which meant that we would not be disturbed by people walking past us all the time. That had been good of him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I winced as the train jerked away from Sheffield Midland Station and began to pick up speed once more. Sherlock's face went from neutral to feral (again) in a matter of seconds. I was going to die!

“John!” he growled.

I nodded frantically and scrambled to my feet ignoring the ache in my backside. We had barely been clear of the platforms at St. Pancras before Sherlock had been on me, pulling off my trousers, scissoring me open (how could he do that so fast?) and spearing me with Major Sherlock (who was as ever eager for his next promotion!). I would never view the points north of that station in quite the same way again for the swaying of the train from side to side meant that he struck my prostate several times in quick succession causing me to whine into the gag that he had somehow also managed to slip on. He had obviously been wearing a cock-ring for he had refrained from painting my insides as usual, while I had erupted all over my chest and the opposite seat. He had duly wiped it all down then had had the brass neck to insert a plug into me and tell me to pull my clothes on and 'try to look normal'. I mean, come on! Thank the Lord that he had wedged the doors shut and pulled the screens down on both sides, the standard sign to passengers on any platform we stopped at of someone who Wished Not To Be Disturbed. I was sure that as we had pulled into St. Albans City Station, I positively radiated the image of a man who had just had hot passionate sex.

Sherlock of course looked like he had just come from taking an elocution lesson, the bastard!

I only began to realize just how much trouble I was in when we left St. Albans for Sherlock had been on me almost before we were past the end of the platform and this time insisted on staying inside me nearly all the way to Bedford, before re-inserting the plug and sitting back with a huge smirk on his face. This was frankly demeaning and I should not have stood for it! Except when we left Bedford I did stand (or at least sit down very carefully) for it. And again when we left Leicester. And Derby. As for now.....

This time Sherlock did not even bother to get semi-undressed, just whipping out his ever-ready hard cock and gesturing for me to come and sit on him. I sighed in a put-upon way and moved across to him, and he efficiently removed the plug before positioning himself at my entrance. Then without warning he pulled me down onto him in one quick movement and oh my Lord he was going straight for the prostate. I had nothing left by this time but my cock still juddered feebly as he nibbled at my neck. I only hoped that he was not leaving another love-bite; the one from earlier this week was large enough and I had had several strange looks from people at the surgery as well as some patients. Gentlemen who allowed their partners to mark them were as a general rule seen by Late Victorian society as somewhat unmanly. 

_(I was mostly naked, sat on another man's cock and being impaled six ways from Sunday on a train passing through the West Riding of Yorkshire. I thought wryly that my manliness had either died somewhere back down the line or more likely was busy arranging to see a lawyer about disowning me!)_

And now Sherlock was jerking me off with one hand while teasing my nipple with the other, muttering gentle reassurance in my ear. I nestled back into him and silently wished that Sheffield and Leeds were not so close together as my battered body twitched exhaustedly. Still I wondered.... would he be reserving a compartment for the journey back to London?

Lord I hoped so!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was torn between surprise and relief when, on reaching Leeds, Sherlock gestured for me to grab my bag and leave with him (although the bastard insisted on leaving the plug in which was downright mean; it was a long way down onto that platform!). Fortunately it turned out that we were only going as far as the dining-car, even if that was about three hundred miles away at the other end of the train. I had thought that we might transfer to a local train to reach Kirkby Stephen which was after all only a small town, but Sherlock explained that he had arranged for the train to stop there. The only slight distraction was said plug but at least it was not the vibrator that he had purchased recently.

I of course was dumb enough (or possibly so out of it that my brain was no longer functioning) to give voice to that thought once the waiter had taken our order. Sherlock's eyes had lit up and I had silently thanked God that we had left the vibrator back in Baker Street after I had blacked out the first time we had used it last week (it had in all fairness been a very hot day). The thought of trying to dine with Sherlock in public while that torture device was massaging my prostate every second was.... disturbingly exciting.

_What the hell was I turning into?_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was dark by the time we reached Kirkby Stephen (Midland) Station. A carriage was waiting for us with a familiar figure inside of it. 

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson?”

The sergeant had come to collect us, which was good of him as it was now tipping down with rain. We greeted him and he called for the driver to move on. I thought wryly that if this was Kirkby Stephen Station then presumably the Midland Railway Company had been somewhat liberal with its station naming policy, as I could see few if any signs of life when we rolled away from the station yard.

“The town is two miles up the road”, the sergeant said, pointing north past the few cottages into the empty night. “We skirt the edges then cut across to the Hall.”

Even that simple gesture earned his coated arm a soaking from the torrential rain which was if anything getting worse. I presumed that our Valiant friend did not wish our deliberations to be overheard by the driver for after that he remained silent for the time it took to reach our destination.

Quite what Addleton Hall itself was like I had no idea for by the time of our arrival the rain had accelerated to the point where ark-building was looking highly advisable. We were drenched even by the short run from the carriage to the porch and I was relieved when a footman took my sodden coat from me.

The entrance-hall of the building was about as depressing as one might have expected from somewhere that two people had just been done to death in. The sergeant guided us into what turned out to be a study and the efficient staff had coffee and sandwiches ready for us. I was relieved as I was ravenously hungry. I caught Sherlock and the sergeant both eyeing me with some humour and I scowled at them both. A man had to eat, damn it! Then I sat down rather too quickly and my eyes watered. 

I had clean forgotten about the damn plug!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The food and drinks were cleared away before the sergeant began his tale.

“This is... difficult”, he said (he had the same tendency as his cake-loving uncle to blush deeply at times). “It concerns the local squire, which as I am sure you gentlemen appreciate means that while justice is for all, getting it wrong for those at the top can have some pretty unpleasant consequences for small fry like me.”

“How bad is it?” Sherlock asked. The huge man sighed heavily.

“Very bad”, he said. “Squire Dacre was a man much loved by everyone around but he and his wife have both been killed, murdered by someone sneaking into the house and shooting them while they were at dinner. There was a huge storm passing over at the time so the gunshots were covered by that, I presume. It was only when the maid came in to get the dinner things that the horror was discovered.”

Sherlock frowned.

“That seems somewhat risky on the murderer’s behalf”, he observed. “Unless they were watching all that time then they could not know if a servant might arrive unexpectedly, although maybe having proven so bloodthirsty I suppose that one more body may not have overly concerned them. How did the murderer gain access to this room, do we know?”

“There is a French door out to the garden with a simple lock on it”, the sergeant said, gesturing to it. “I was able to force it open easily, although there was no evidence of it having been attempted before which I would have expected. I found some footprints leading across a muddy part of the grass to the wall, but I think that they were fakes put there by the murderer.”

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“They were a size six and my chief suspect is an eight”, the sergeant said. “As I said they headed to the wall rather than the gate a little way along; there was what looked like a recent lowering of the wall where the tracks ended but the gate leads out onto a moorland footpath that is almost never used, especially late at night when this happened. Besides, who would go over a wall when there is an unlocked gate to hand?”

“You observed well”, Sherlock praised. “Who is this suspect?” 

“The late squire’s brother Edgar, now guardian to the new squire, his nephew Mark. The boy is an only child, twelve years old and away in Kendal when this happened.”

Sherlock looked hard at him.

“There is something else here”, he said. “What is it?”

The sergeant grinned.

“Never could get one past you, sir”, he said. “The boy was due home yesterday before the attack but his mother arranged for him to stay on with a fellow classmate in Barrow for a few days. Just as well.”

“You are certain that his _mother_ arranged this?” Sherlock asked, seeming surprised at that for some reason. “Not his father or the other boy's parents?”

The sergeant nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “One of the footmen went into town with the telegram and he had to check its contents before it was sent. And with the shooting.... well.”

I felt that I was missing something here.

“What is it?” I asked. Sherlock turned to me.

“No matter how fast the shooter”, he said, “it takes several seconds to shoot two people at long-range who are sat in different positions at a dinner table, especially as they must have been at the very least at right-angles and more probably sat facing each other, necessitating the killer to change their firing position. In that time the person that was shot second would doubtless have screamed for help, unless….”

The sergeant nodded.

“Someone else was in on it”, he said firmly.

“Tell me more about your chief suspect”, Sherlock said. The sergeant frowned.

“Mr. Edgar Millebrande. Motive is obvious as he is now squire in all but name _and_ his nephew's guardian. He has a gun and is an excellent shot and as to opportunity – that is where the problems start.”

He consulted his notebook. 

“It is all about timing”, he said. “Mr. Edgar Millebrande was due to arrive after dinner to discuss certain financial matters as regards the estate. He has a house in Appleby and went to the station there to catch the seven twelve train to Addleton Halt. The ticket-collector and the station-master both remember seeing him; he arrived at shortly after the hour and boarded the train immediately it arrived at two minutes past the hour. It has to wait for the northbound train to access the single line, you see.”

“Does he live near the station in Appleby?” Sherlock asked.

“No sir”, the sergeant said. “Right on the southern edge of town.”

“An unusual choice of travel then”, Sherlock said. “Does the man not own a horse?”

“Yes but it was being treated by the local vet for lameness so he had to catch the train. I did check that of course. I noted that there was no train back but then Mr. Edgar has a reputation for never missing a chance for a free night at someone else's expense.”

Sherlock nodded.

“To continue”, the sergeant said, “the train left two minutes late, called at both Warcop and Musgrave, and reached Kirkby Stephen at seven thirty-eight, one minute down. It is scheduled to stop there for five minutes and so was able to depart on time at seven forty-two. It reached Addleton Halt which is unstaffed at seven forty-eight. The guard did not see anyone alight but the platform is curved and it was both dark and raining at the time, plus he was not by the exit when the train stopped. Mr. Edgar Millebrande walked from there to the hall – it is about ten minutes; I checked – and arrived here at a fraction before eight. The footman who let him in remembered that the hall clock was striking as he was admitted.”

“A most fortuitous alibi”, Sherlock smiled. “What next?”

“The visitor was shown into the library and the footman asked a maid to inform the squire that his brother was here. There was no way that he could have done anything at that time; the maid had to just walk across that huge hall to go to the dining-room and Mr. Edgar was behind her in the waiting-room. That, as you can imagine, was when all hell broke loose. Constable Grafton was summoned from the town – he is a sound fellow and made sure that everything was done by the book – and I was called in from my station in Appleby. I was off duty but of course for such an important client I had to come. I did a quick check last night – it was pitch dark and there was no moon - so Mr. Edgar insisted that I stay the night in order that I could continue my investigations first thing today.”

“Is Mr. Edgar Millebrande here now?” Sherlock asked. The sergeant shook his head.

“He wished to return to his own house this morning”, he said. “I can understand why, I suppose. I feel in my bones that he must be guilty but I do not see how.”

“Nor do I for now”, Sherlock admitted. “This case will take some considerable thought. Assuming that on the morrow the Good Lord has stopped trying to flood this fair county, the doctor and I will take a breath or two of your fresh Westmorland air and we will see what we can do.”

The sergeant then showed us exactly where the squire and his wife had been sitting at the time, around the corner and furthest from the balcony window. There was a step down to the French doors and I noted that the high-backed chairs must have meant the visitor would have had to go up and forward to get a line of sight of the far end of the table. The sergeant also drew our attention to an old-fashioned bell-pull. 

“This was between the two victims”, he said. “As you said sir, one or other of them could easily have summoned help in seconds. The squire disliked it as medieval I was told, and rarely used it.”

“Have you tested it?” Sherlock asked. 

The sergeant reddened. The detective smiled.

“Even I do not think of everything”, he said consolingly before pulling the rope hard. 

It promptly fell to the floor. We all looked at it in surprise before Sherlock carefully picked it up.

“The end has been taped back into position”, he said, “and before that cleanly severed from the rest of the rope with some sort of knife. An exceptionally sharp one; there is almost no fraying. So you were right, sergeant; someone with access to the house was indeed involved. I think that you should put this back then seal off this room until further notice. We would not wish our potential suspect to know that we have become aware of their little ruse.”

The sergeant nodded, clearly a little embarrassed at not having spotted such a thing himself. We examined the rest of the room but did not find anything of import so adjourned to our beds before which, mercifully, Sherlock allowed me to remove the plug. Despite not having my usual six-foot bed-warmer, I slept like a log!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The next morning the three of us assembled in the study. I knew from the light in my friend's eyes that he had thought of something. 

“First”, he said turning to the sergeant, “I need to know a couple of things. Is Mr. Edgar Millebrande aware that you have brought me in on the case?”

The sergeant scratched his head. Unlike his uncle he had short and carefully cropped black hair although at thirty-two there were already the first signs of grey. Then again he did have six children, the young dog, which perhaps explained that!

“I did not tell him sir”, he said, “but given the nature of the area I would be surprised if he does not find out soon enough. Like back in Surrey these areas have their own invisible telegraph system!”

“Then we must move fast”, Sherlock said firmly. “Apart from his late brother, what other family does Mr. Edgar have?” 

“None close, sir”, the sergeant said. “He has a younger sister Mrs. Pitt who lives up in Carlisle; she is a widow and his late brother supported her and her son Gordon. The boy is a nasty piece of work; the coppers up there say he will be inside before long if he keeps going the way he is. There is another sister who went out to Nova Scotia and who has two sons of her own, although I do not know anything about her; I assume she is financially secure though otherwise she would have been supported too.”

“I wish you to go and interview Mrs. Pitt today”, Sherlock said much to my surprise. Also to the sergeant's, judging by his reaction.

“Sir?”

“I require as much information about Mr. Edgar's character as you can get”, Sherlock said. “I know it is a fair journey but I would not ask if it were not important. When you return, can you meet us in Appleby at around six? At the North Eastern Railway station there if you please.”

The sergeant still looked puzzled but nodded.

“Very well, sir”, he said, and left.

I would have said something at this point but Sherlock just looked at me, so I waited until the sergeant had gone before speaking.

“You think that the _sister_ will provide some useful information?” I asked dubiously. He laughed.

“I most sincerely doubt it.”

“Then why...?”

He sighed, sounding almost unhappily.

“John, I may be what they call a 'town boy' but I know rural areas like this”, he said. “Possibly even better than our clever friend. Mr. Edgar Millebrande, now the squire in all but name until his nephew comes of age - and that event I consider unlikely given his uncle's proclivity toward removing his own kith and kin from this plane of existence - is now an important man in these parts. If he thinks that our friend is getting even remotely close to the truth he will use his connections to ruin him, and quickly. No, the sergeant can have a pleasant day out in that old Roman citadel and Mr. Edgar can rest easy in the mistaken belief that he is on the wrong track. We must complete our case today, and strike before he realizes the danger. We shall start with the servants.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Hinds the butler was the longest-serving of all the staff at the hall. Sherlock summoned him to the study and the man stood proud and erect despite his sixty-odd years.

“You are aware as to why I have been called in?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, sir”, he said. “To investigate the master's and the mistress's deaths.”

“You understand that in order to establish the truth I must ask some quite difficult questions?”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good”, he said. “I have one main question for you, Hinds. I know that despite her marriage, your mistress has been pursuing an illicit relationship with another man in recent times; I will not say gentleman because obviously he was none. I am going to write that man's name on this piece of paper, and all I require is either confirmation or denial as to whether I am right.”

He quickly wrote something on a scrap of paper and passed it to the butler, who blanched. 

“You are correct, sir, much as I wish that you were not.”

“Thank you, Hinds.”

The butler hesitated.

“May I be allowed a question of my own, sir?”

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “What is it?”

“Will the doctor be writing this up as one of your cases?”

“Not in the foreseeable future”, I said firmly. “At least not until the young squire comes of age and can decide if he wishes the details to be made public. One of our rules is that no innocent person must be harmed in the publication of any case so until he can make that judgement for himself, it shall remain a secret.”

The butler nodded.

“Thank you, sirs”, he said and withdrew. 

And to my annoyance Sherlock scrunched up the piece of paper he had written the name on and threw it neatly into the fire. I shot him a glare for that.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We did nothing for the rest of the morning although Sherlock went out for a short walk by himself for half an hour or so and we had a pleasant enough luncheon at the hall. Mercifully the weather had cleared as my friend had ordered a carriage for the afternoon. We took a large wicker basket with us and it turned out to be but a short journey that he had in mind however as we went only the few miles to Kirkby Stephen, a most attractive little market-town. Sherlock visited all three sets of stables in the town and came away from the third looking exceptionally pleased with himself.

“You are still not going to tell me anything, are you?” I sighed.

“Patience, John”, he said. “All will be revealed soon.”

Sometimes I wondered why I put up with him. Then he smiled that special smile of his and I knew the answer. Because I loved him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We proceeded as far as the isolated Midland Railway station of the day before where, having left the carriage in the stables Sherlock spent some time scouring the station yard for something or other; he would not say what. He must have found it fairly quickly for we still had a fair wait for a northbound train to come in. We reached Appleby at just before six and walked the short distance to the North Eastern Railway station, where the sergeant was waiting for us on the platform. Sherlock accepted his notes from his interview with Mr. Edgar Millebrande's sister and we sat down in the waiting room. 

“Gentlemen”, he said, “my plans for this evening are to effect a reconstruction of the crime, as much as I am able. I believe I can show how Mr. Edgar Millebrande murdered his brother and his brother's wife, yet also established for himself what seemed like the perfect alibi. Assuming of course that our esteemed railway companies perform to time.”

“That would be wonderful if you could”, the sergeant said looking at the large basket. “Is there a clue in that thing?”

Sherlock opened the basket and showed its contents to us both.

“Dinner”, he grinned. “We have a long evening ahead of us.”

God bless the man, there was even half a chocolate cake!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We were on the London-bound platform of Appleby (North Eastern) Station when at two minutes past seven a polished green locomotive pulled in in a swirl of steam and smoke. As the train slowed to a halt my friend turned to us.

“Gentlemen”, he said firmly, “you must both follow me and do _exactly_ as I do. Do you understand?”

We both nodded, although I did not see exactly how following him into a railway carriage demanded such precise instructions. 

I should have known better. Sherlock got into the compartment first, I followed and the sergeant handed me the basket. I turned to speak to my friend only to find that he had vanished!

“What on earth...?” 

There was a tap on the window. Sherlock was looking up at me from his position between the tracks.

“Hurry!” he called.

By the time the sergeant and I had extricated ourselves from the other side of the carriage my friend was leaving the station via the level-crossing and hurrying into the twilight. We hoisted the basket between us and raced after him. After only a short time it became clear where he was heading and sure enough he went into the Midland Railway's own Appleby Station where a red locomotive was snorting impatiently at the platform. Hoping that he had arranged the tickets I led the sergeant after him and the two of us made it into the carriage barely a minute before the train started on its journey.

“I checked the railway timetables in the Hall library this morning”, Sherlock said, as the two of us recovered our breath. “This train, the seven eleven, reaches the Midland station in Kirkby Stephen at seven thirty-one, seventeen minutes before the North Eastern train pulls into Addleton Halt. And this train only stops at the two halts, Ormside and Crosby Garrett, on request so may be there even quicker.”

“I should have spotted that!” the sergeant said vexedly. “Though how did he get to the Hall in time? It is some distance away from the Midland Station.”

“This was an excellently-planned crime”, Sherlock said. “A few days beforehand, Mr. Edgar Millebrande makes his own horse lame and ensures that the local vet treats her, so that it appears he has no transport. He then disguises himself and visits Kirkby Stephen, where he hires a horse for a few days, rides it back to the Midland Railway station in that town and leaves it in the stables there under a false name. The College Arms in the town hired such a horse to a man loosely matching Mr. Edgar's description and it is due to be returned tomorrow morning. I would suggest, sergeant, that it might be in your interests to have a man in the vicinity when that happens.”

The sergeant nodded. We slowed but did not stop at either of the halts and were soon pulling once more into Kirkby Stephen (Midland) Station, full two minutes ahead of time. Sherlock got out and ran ahead, and by the time the sergeant and I were there had the carriage ready. It was dark by this time and the heavy grey cloud made for poor visibility.

“You will notice”, Sherlock said, “that there is a second horse in the stables here. I would recommend coming here first thing tomorrow morning, sergeant and checking it in the light before Mr. Edgar turns up to collect it. There may even be a loose thread from his clothes trapped in the saddle.”

“I see it all now”, I said. “Except.... who was the man that Mrs. Millebrande was seeing?”

Sherlock looked at me almost sorrowfully. I suddenly felt a cold that had nothing to do with the icy barn that we were all standing in. The sergeant fidgeted for reasons that I could guess all too well.

“The sergeant suspects rightly”, Sherlock said. “Two people are shot yet the second one does _not_ call for help. Just like with Mrs. Montpensier, Mrs. Millebrande was secretly seeing her own brother-in-law.”

“What?” I exclaimed in horror. 

“Mr. Edgar Millebrande rides to the hall directly from this station”, he explained. “At a gallop it is under ten minutes so he is there about twenty to eight. He enters via the balcony window most probably left ajar for him by his sister-in-law and shoots her husband dead. Mrs. Millebrande, the poor foolish woman, turns to her lover only to receive exactly the same treatment. Her brother-in-law had no intention of acquiring a burdensome partner for the next few years during which he intends to strip his nephew's estate bare, if not kill the boy before he comes of age.”

“He then leaves and, knowing the estate as he does, he knows there is one particularly muddy area of the lawn where footprints may survive the downpour that has helped mask his killings. He makes sure that the tracks were in shoes that are too small for him – you were quite right to be suspicious over that, sergeant – then retrieves his horse and gallops back to Addleton Halt, arriving at about the same time as the North Eastern Railway train that he was supposed to be on. You will also recall the state of the horse back in the railway stables, which had clearly suffered some ill-usage.”

“The halt may be unmanned at that time of night, but with the high stakes that he is playing for he cannot risk someone else alighting and later stating when questioned that they were the only passenger that night. He rides more slowly back to the Hall, timing his arrival to when he knows the hall clock will be striking the hour and will likely be remembered.”

“The bastard!” I said.

“But we have him!” the sergeant said, his eyes glowing in the dark.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We had. A search of the horse early the following morning revealed a red fibre with gold braid which matched Mr. Edgar Millebrande's coat that he had worn on the fateful night. When he returned the horse in Kirkby Stephen wearing the same disguise as before, he was arrested for the murder of his brother. 

Sherlock and I had a pleasant extra day in Westmorland with Sergeant LeStrade and his family, including our godsons. Six-year-old Tristram was almost uncannily Sherlock-like in his approach to life, and told us boldly that he was determined to follow his father into the service, while his younger twin just looked at him and rolled his eyes. I knew how he felt; some people were just....

That was when 'someone' managed to whisper to me as to just what our journey back to London would be like. The fellow was insatiable!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Sadly Mr. Edgar Millebrande was destined not to face the deserved long drop as he somehow gained access to a razor while in jail and slit his own throat rather than face up to his crimes. His son grew to be a fine young man, his teenage years marred only by a dispute over some family jewels that the late squire's sister Mrs. Pitt had felt entitled to led to a legal dispute with the latter's son Gordon (which Sherlock helped the young squire win).

And on the way back to London, the long, hard way, Major Sherlock most definitely earned that promotion to Lieutenant-Colonel. Six times!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† The Midland line mentioned in this story is part of the famously scenic Settle & Carlisle line, which the nationalized joke that was British Railways tried and failed to close in the 1980s. Two preservation societies are also striving to re-establish the North-Eastern line mentioned in this story between Kirkby Stephen and Appleby. Addleton is fictional but eastern Westmorland is a beautiful and severely under-visited place, in the shadow of the west of the county and the beautiful Lakes._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	17. Interlude: Stoned And Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Someone is de-stoned!

_[Narration by Sergeant Valiant LeStrade]_

Just days after Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson had helped me put away the vile Mr. Edgar Millebrande (and given their godsons absurdly generous boosts to their bank accounts that would give them both an excellent start in life), I started feeling a bit off. Unfortunately one of my failings is that I tend to ignore illnesses as much as possible so I struggled on, but by the end of that month I was in poor shape and had to take time off work. The local doctor, Jack Argyll, was all right but whatever I had was clearly beyond him, so I supposed that I would just have to fight it off as best I could.

I am however blessed to have as my wife the most wonderful woman in the world, and despite being pregnant Jane was not prepared to see me suffer. She wrote to our friends down in London and soon after none other than Sir Belvedere Fforbes-Jacobson, one of Harley Street's most eminent doctors and a gentleman who had actually attended royalty, arrived in Kirkby Stephen. It would likely have cost me a year's salary to have afforded his services but he explained that Mr. Holmes had once sorted a matter for a dear relation of his, and he was more than delighted to have the opportunity to return the favour. It turned out that I had a gall stone and I was sent to the hospital at Carlisle to have it removed. 

Mr. Holmes's munificence did not stop there. Most unusually for those times I was told that my salary would continue to be paid while I recovered; usually the force only covered a few days off per year at most and I had that time off already. I was therefore able to return to work after another month off feeling wonderful, not just because I was whole again but because I had such a wonderful set of friends as those two gentlemen down in London. Even if they always kept looking at each other as if they wanted to... you know.

Poor Doctor Watson getting onto that train back to London. I had not thought that a fellow man could look _that_ terrified!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	18. Interlude: Big Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Lucifer strikes out!

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

Very depressingly, I had turned fifty earlier in the year. Worse, Benji was still in his mid-thirties and despite his praising my body when we had sex, I now found myself hearing the unspoken 'at your age'. Still, if he kept on the way he was I would not have to worry about hitting sixty - _he would kill me through sex long before I got there!_

I had had to go to the Houses of Parliament to have Words with one honourable member who was being a most dishonourable member, and had had hard work to persuade him to stand down before the newspapers found out about his second wife back in his home constituency. And his third one in London. And the fact that he had gotten the daughter of one of his fellow Cabinet members pregnant, the dog!

I wondered briefly if he was related to some horn-dog I knew....

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had arranged to meet Benji here, something which would doubtless raise more than a few eyebrows in this most conservative of institutions, as he had expressed a desire to see his namesake Big Ben (which as most people know is the actual bell, not the tower it hands in). It was rather eerie climbing up inside the tower and seeing the four famous clock-faces from the inside; we were both equipped with ear-protectors as he wanted to hear the famous chimes ring close up for some reason. And from the hour-hand outside he was just about to.....

I realized that he had fallen a little behind me and turned to look at him – and nearly fell off the damn walkway. Somehow he had gotten himself completely naked!

“What did you think I wanted to do in here, Mr. Lucifer?” he grinned. “Buy a souvenir postcard?”

Sex in this place? That was just... why were buttons so damn hard?

Fortunately he helped me out of my clothes and worked me open in short order. My mind span and despite the closeness barely heard the famous chimes as the bell worked up towards the hour....

“Bong!”

And with that he thrust straight in, the bastard! I made to scream but he already had one hand over my mouth while the other was fondling a very happy Demonator....

“Bong!”

He thrust in again and my body spasmed as I came hard. Then, in what little was left of my mind, it registered.

It was mid-day! I was toast!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

He had to help me walk down from the tower and I needed a long sit-down on a painfully hard chair before I could make it out of the place. The man was a complete sex-maniac and I would definitely need a rest when I got home.

“Don't forget Mr. Lucifer sir”, he said as he helped me into the cab later. “Bet says I can spend the weekend with you after Joe's birth.”

Oh yes, the horn-dog's tenth child. A nice, relaxing weekend when he would surely allow me at least some time to recover and..... and why was he looking at me like that still?

God have mercy!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	19. Case 196: The Adventure Of Tristram And Iseult ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Having left one Tristram behind in Westmorland, Sherlock and John 'assist' a second and slightly older Arthurian knight who wishes to marry his beautiful lady-love. Except that there is a bit of a problem.   
> Make that two problems. Their respective fathers, Inspectors Gawain LeStrade and Tobias Gregson, the Great Cake-Detectors Of London Town and, just perhaps, not exactly the best of friends.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I know that there is that old canard about history repeating itself, but it was a strange coincidence that immediately after our investigation into the Addleton Murders and our visit to our godsons Tristram and Torre LeStrade, we immediately ran into a problem involving their cousin Iseult and another Tristram, Inspector Gregson's younger son. And when I say problem, I really do mean problem!

To sum up how this horrible mess came about, the reader will remember that Gregson's wife had died back in 'Eighty-Eight and that he and his two sons had moved to a street not far from Baker Street where – and the Fates were surely setting this up to be a disaster of the first order – his deadly rival LeStrade lived just four doors down. All I can say is thank the Lord for LeStrade's wife Valerie who stood no nonsense from her husband, and who helped his rival finish raising two fine young men to adulthood. Both the Great Cake-Detectors Mark One and Mark Two – I blame John for making me think of them like that, much as they merited those monikers - were of course far too proud to accept any direct help, but I was able to arrange several 'fortunate circumstances' that helped them with their finances, particularly Gregson who I knew was struggling with his growing and motherless teenage sons.

John remarked on more than one occasions that it was all too likely I would be one day investigating the murder of one of our friends by the other, perhaps when the time came for them to be made chief-inspectors. I had hoped that relations between them had actually seemed to have been improving of late, if only from arctic to subarctic, but the arrival to Baker Street of an attractive young lady in early September torpedoed those hopes very effectively. For it was LeStrade's only daughter Iseult, a lady of some twenty-two years of age who reminded me little of Miss St. Leger. I only hoped that when this lady encountered Randall as far too many attractive young ladies in the capital did sooner rather than later, she too would be armed. She was certainly dangerous already, at least to my peace of mind!

Miss LeStrade looked around our room consideringly.

“No Doctor Watson?” she asked.

Ah. She had unfortunately timed her visit to the day after my thirtieth birthday, which was why John was still in his room and dead to the world. At three o' clock in the afternoon.

It was still not a strut, despite Mrs. Hudson shaking her head at me when I had gone out earlier. Quite why her niece was handing her money and grumbling about something, I had no idea.

“He had a patient last night so he is catching up on his sleep”, I feigned. “I hope that your father is well?”

“Still as grumpy as ever”, she said cheerfully. “I am here to talk to you about sex.”

I baulked. One does not expect to hear that sort of thing from a young lady, even this one.

“Pardon?” I managed.

“Do you know Tristram Gregson?” she asked.

I was still reeling from her earlier statement, but with an effort I managed to pull myself together.

“Our friend Inspector Gregson's younger son”, I said. “He will be twenty-two next month, I believe.”

“Triss has no brains and very little sense”, she said curtly. “But he has a decent nature, and a very nice body. I am going to marry him.”

I was beginning to wonder if I had stumbled into some parallel universe where ladies said things like this that made sense. Although as regarded her last statement I could see the massive herd of elephants in the room. A whole savannah full of the things!

“You think that your and his fathers will not take it well?” I ventured, thinking that once again I was making an entry in the Understatement Of The Century Competition. 

She snorted disdainfully.

“Might save them from killing each other if they both die of heart-attacks”, she said shortly. “Any ideas?”

I thought for a moment.

“Does Mr. Tristram Gregson concur with your schedule?” I asked politely.

“He will”, she said firmly (I believed her in that, and felt vaguely sorry for the young man whom I vaguely knew). “He likes me, but he thinks that going after a girl these days just involves staring at her and looking constipated. It is the father problem that I need you to sort out. I am sure that Mother would be able to get his father to accept it, but mine will take off for Jupiter when he finds out.”

I thought back to my own convoluted family – both versions! - and how my own mother might behave in such circumstances. It would have truly been an apocalypse, or as Anna called it, a Level Twelve. It was not as if I could just magic up someone and.....

_Or maybe I could._

“Does your father know that you have any particular regard for Mr. Tristram Gregson?” I asked. 

She shook her head.

“He knows that we are friends but that is it”, she said. “It is Triss's father who is the problem. No amount of cake is going to get him round this time.”

She really was quite disrespectful of her elders and betters, no matter how right she was (completely and utterly, and from her smirk she knew that full well).

“I will take this case”, I said, “but there are one or two things that I will need you to do, madam. It may involve kissing.”

She looked at me uncertainly.

“Someone handsome?” she asked hopefully.

As I said, the young generation these days.... damnation, now I was sounding just like John!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was five o' clock when John finally limped from his room, and the smile on his face when he discovered that dinner would be ready in a matter of minutes was a joy to behold. The look of horror when I reminded him that I still had some ideas that I had not got round to trying out on my birthday.... that was also a joy to behold, if for slightly different reasons!

After a hearty meal he was visibly relieved when I said that I wanted nothing more than some manly embracing, although he looked at me suspiciously when quite by mistake I so nearly said the other word starting with a 'c' that rhymed with huddling. As we lay together I told him of my plans for Miss LeStrade.

“She is a formidable young lady”, he said dubiously. “Do you think that it will work?”

“Given what we are working with, yes”, I said. “I have called in a favour from a friend of mine at the 'Times', who tomorrow will be for once printing something that is not quite one hundred per cent truthful.”

He snorted at that.

“Their society pages are hardly ever right!” he scoffed.

I just looked at him. That blush as he realized what he had just admitted to was wondrous to behold, but I was too much of a friend to comment on it and make him uncomfortable.

“I can _hear_ that smirk!” he grumbled.

“I am not actually smirking”, I smiled.

“That makes it worse!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

To give him due credit it was full two days before LeStrade arrived at Baker Street, and I did not laugh at Mrs. Hudson's bewilderment that he had come round on a non-baking day for the first time in..... well, I could not actually remember as it had been that far back.

“Is something wrong, LeStrade?” I asked dryly. “Mrs. Hudson's baking day is not until Friday.”

He scowled at my perfectly accurate observation and thrust a copy of the 'Times' at me.

“What do you know about this fellow, Mr. Marc with a 'C' King?” he demanded. “Isa says that she knows him back from school!”

“They do often have girls' and boys' schools next to each other, LeStrade”, I said mildly. “Is your daughter not allowed to have friends for some reason?”

“Friends is one thing”, the inspector said shortly. “Not blackguards like this fellow is made out to be. Have you heard of him?”

I looked expectantly at the person across the room who hardly ever read the social pages. The pout was, as ever _glorious!_

“They say that his family is of Russian extraction, and that while he was sent to England to obtain an education here, he wishes to find a girl to marry before returning to his home”, John said frostily. “A place called Vladivostok, over on the Pacific Ocean. I suppose that it must be a dangerous area as it was only founded a few decades back to give the Bear a decent Pacific port, though I understand that it is ice-bound for much of the year.”

“I hate the Russians!” LeStrade groused. “He can't go anywhere near my girl, dammit!”

“Short of locking her up or persuading her to marry someone else rather quickly, I do not see how you can stop her”, I said. “She is a most headstrong young lady.”

LeStrade moaned.

“I will tell you what”, I said. “I can ask my friend Miss St. Leger to look into him. Give her a day – maybe two as it is the other side of the world that we are dealing with here – and we will see what she can come up with.”

“This is terrible!” LeStrade sighed. “It was bad enough that she is friends with that idiot boy of Gregson's, the one who makes an echo every time someone knocks his head. Foreigners is the last thing we need!”

“Come back on Friday and we shall see what we have on this Mr. King”, I said soothingly. “At least there will be cake!”

He brightened considerably at that prospect, but his face was back to Standard Lugubriousness by the time he left. I think that I did very well not to smile, all things considered.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I knew that LeStrade was upset because he had barely eaten half the slice of delicious carrot-cake that I had put in front of him. John remained as ever a bad influence on me, but at least now I could make him pay for that!

“How bad is it?” our visitor asked anxiously.

“I would like to say that it could be worse”, I said, “but I am afraid that like the doctor I must be honest with the people that I deal with. This Mr. King is not a nice man at all. He is certainly no gentleman.”

“In what way?” LeStrade asked.

“He has said – away from the newspapers of course – that he wants to establish a new dynasty out in distant Siberia”, I said. “He wants at least twelve sons although he will generously accept any daughters that arrive while he is waiting. His future wife will certainly be very busy.”

LeStrade looked horrified!

“You were right about his past”, he said. “He was at the Boys' School next to hers, and he saw her a few times. Charming all right, and a bloody punchable face. She likes him, Lord alone knows why. Said he was way better than that idiot boy of Gregson's, though that's a low bar.”

“At least Mr. Gregson Junior does not have form for cruelty”, I said. “This Mr. King seems to take great pleasure in the sufferings of others, although I do not of course know whether it would ever extend to his own wife...”

LeStrade looked even more horrified!

“How do we stop him?” he demanded.

I looked at him incredulously.

“You mean, how do we stop a gentleman going about finding a wife, or how do we stop your daughter from doing something that she has seemingly set her mind on?” I asked. “The first is perfectly legal so I can do nothing, while the second is surely impossible!”

“Unless young Tristram Gregson ups and proposes to her”, Watson chuckled.

“Like that would ever happen”, I smiled. “One never gets a miracle when one needs it.”

“We'll get him to do it if that's what it takes!” LeStrade said, rising to his feet. “I'm off to Gregson's to talk him round.”

He was halfway to the door before I coughed pointedly. He span round and looked at me.

“What?” he demanded.

I gestured to the table, and he blushed.

“Oh yes”, he said. “Better finish the cake. Don't want Mrs. Hudson to think I didn't like it.”

I was sure that John muttered something along the lines of 'like that would ever happen!', but fortunately our visitor 'missed' it. I was sure that the blush was completely coincidental. _Just as I was sure that the Moon was made of green cheese!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

A week later we had two more visitors to Baker Street. The newly engaged Miss Iseult LeStrade and Mr. Tristram Gregson.

“We cannot thank you enough for what you did, Mr. Holmes”, Miss LeStrade beamed. “Father is over the moon now that he thinks that the Russian menace has given up and gone back to Siberia.”

“Whereas in truth my actor friend who played him has gone back to Sidcup”, I smiled. “It was a pleasure, madam.”

“Once we are married Tristram will of course get a better job”, she said. “He will also have to take an evening study course, so that we can discuss books. And we shall be waiting two years before we try for our first child.”

Mr. Tristram Gregson looked horrified!

“You never said any of that, Isa!” he protested.

“That is Part One of my schedule”, she said airily. “You will also need some new clothes, and you will definitely be giving up beer except for one evening a week.”

Her future husband looked at me pleadingly.

“Mr. Holmes! Help!”

I smiled at his sudden distress.

“When one has a partner, one has to make sacrifices”, I said. “It comes to most men in the end.”

Miss LeStrade thanked us again and hustled him out, still talking at him.

“Poor fellow”, John said. “I bet he wishes that he could go to Mr. King's Siberia now. He will be totally whipped once they are actually married.”

“Some men are”, I agreed.

He looked at me suspiciously, suspecting a double meaning in those words. And he was right so to do!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	20. Case 197: The Adventure Of The Parisian Peregrination ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. Possibly in retaliation for ruining his entire life, Mr. Tristram Gregson asks Sherlock to do the seemingly impossible – get his father up the Eiffel Tower in Paris!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was only a couple of days after the conclusion to my last and rather romantic case that we had a surprise visitor to Baker Street. Young Mr. Tristram Gregson. He collapsed into the fireside chair looking exhausted.

“I trust that plans for the wedding are going well?” I asked, perhaps a shade too innocently.

He shot me a dirty look. I had little sympathy; he had wanted to marry Miss Iseult LeStrade and he was now learning just how much truth there was in that old saw about being careful what you wish for. As they so rightly say, a bride's plans for her future husband can be summed up by the three parts of the wedding service - Aisle, Altar, Hymn!

_(Watson, who told me that, had of course to ruin it by noting that contrary to what most people believe, brides do not process up the aisle as that term applies to the area leading away from the altar to the side of the church. He is such a pedant at times, although I am working hard to force that out of him. Which was one reason that he had to limp down the stairs again this morning, making cri... manly expressions of surprise all the way!)_

“All morning with her trying on wedding-dresses!” our visitor sighed. “Lord help me if she did not like some horror in _peach,_ of all things! I can only thank my father for his wanting a Scots wedding so that I have to wear a kilt, and I was able to lie and say that it had to be white in order not to clash. Then there was this fluffy nightmare that looked like an exploded meringue! _With sequins!”_

I remembered that the late Mary Gregson had been Scottish, and possessed of a whole number of terrible relatives who would likely not be getting a wedding invitation any time this side of Christmas. Then again I knew all about terrible relatives; Luke had fallen asleep in Benji's arms while I had called round yesterday, and the behemoth had looked insufferably smug for reasons that I knew all too well. As I had said to John when I had got back, I hated it when people were too smug, although I had felt that he had nodded a shade too fervently at that for some reason.

“But that is not why I am here today”, our visitor said. “You may have changed my life Mr. Holmes, but I am here to set you what may be an impossible challenge.”

“Say on”, I said equably.

“As you know, Isa wants to have her honeymoon in Devonshire”, he said. “Her uncle and eldest brother both live in the north of the county and they have got a cottage for us, right on the seafront. She did think of Paris which horrified me – I hate foreign travel! - but thankfully decided against it. However, as we were talking I caught Father looking sad for some reason. I was certain that he had never gone abroad so I thought that it might be some case with a French link that had maybe gone wrong in some way. Isa suggested that she write to Bors and ask him about it; he wrote back and.... it is rather sad, really.”

He looked very serious now, an odd look on his young features.

“My late mother had been fascinated by the story of the Lover's Well”, he said. “Have you heard of it?”

I had not, so looked expectantly at John.

“Your mother died around the time that they were building the Eiffel Tower in Paris”, he explained. “They issued a number of coins in pairs; one was to be kept and the other would be sealed inside the well forever. I think that they originally left it open but so many people came to throw in their own coins that they had to close it.”

“My mother thought the story wonderful”, our visitor smiled, “and although she did not like going abroad she always hoped that one day she could visit and just leave a coin there. She even set aside two coins 'just in case'. Bors told us all about it.”

I looked sharply at him.

“You wish for me to get your father to Paris so that he can fulfil his late wife's wishes and leave a coin there”, I said. “Difficult, to say the least.”

“Not if they sell cake in Paris!” said someone who did not want to sit down any time tomorrow. I gave him a look which made that quite clear, and he shuddered most pleasurably.

“I shall leave it with you”, our visitor smiled. “This afternoon it is more dresses, and tomorrow, as it happens, it is cake. Fortunately my father has for some strange reason offered to stand in for me over that.”

“How _incredibly_ generous of him!” John smiled.

Our visitor made his farewells and left. I looked pointedly at John, whose smile was fading rapidly.

“I think”, I said slowly, “that it is time for some chocolate.”

That clearly surprised him.

“Oh”, he said. 

“The bar with eighteen pieces to it”, I grinned. “Before each one I am going to jerk you off as rapidly as possible, then given you precisely one minute to eat your piece before starting again!”

He looked at me in absolute terror!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Some time later one totally wrecked English city doctor lay asleep on his bed. There were still thirteen pieces of chocolate left but I doubted that he had the strength to get them out of the wrapper.

_Like the prodigious Benji, I was the man!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Some ten days later Gregson himself came round. Unusually even Mrs. Hudson's excellent upside-down cake did not raise much of a smile from him, which clearly surprised John.

“Valerie won a competition to go to Paris for a weekend”, he said glumly. “But she needs someone to go with her, and the bastards at the top will not let Gary off work for two measly days! Two days, damnation!”

I tutted at the awfulness of some people, noting John's smile at how our visitor's one-time deadliest enemy had somehow evolved into 'Gary'. Even we hardly ever called him Gawain; he just seemed so much more.... LeStrade. 

“Why do you not offer to take her?” I asked. “You are not on duty this weekend.”

Mainly because I had arranged that, which was why it had taken some ten days to reach this point. He looked at me as if I were mad!

“Well, for one thing Gary might just have something to say about that!” he said. “For another I do not have a passport and it has to be this coming weekend. There is a whole set of tours thrown in; the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Tower, everything, so it cannot be postponed or anything.”

“I am sure that LeStrade would trust a fellow officer with something as precious as his good lady wife”, I said, “especially as we both know that he loathes foreigners in general. Besides, getting a passport is easy.”

“It takes months”, he objected. “Everyone knows that.”

“If you are up to it, I can have Miss St. Leger secure you one by this evening”, I said. “All she has to do is suggest to the right people to get a move on and they will get a very fast move on, if only because their failure so to do might lead her to start investigations into all sorts of things that they most definitely do not want investigated. All you would have to do is to go and collect it when it is ready.”

He hesitated, for reasons I knew well.

“Is there something else?” I asked.

He blushed deeply. 

“Just.... Mary”, he muttered. “She had a pair of those daft lovers' coins that they put out when they were building the Tower. She always wanted to go over there and have her coin in the well but.... it never happened.”

I smiled at that.

“John read me something about that one time”, I said. “I know that they sealed the well, but I do have a contact in Paris who owes me a favour so they could arrange for it to be temporarily unsealed. You could leave your late wife's coin there as she wished.”

I seriously thought that one London police inspector was going to lose it in our main room. He actually whimpered, and buried himself in his cake. I hid a smile; it really was good to do something for a good friend.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following week we had more visitors. Miss Iseult LeStrade and Mr. Tristram Gregson.

“Triss is delighted at how happy his father is”, Miss LeStrade said. “Say thank-you, dear.”

I shot a warning look at John, who had half-way through mouthing the word 'whipped'. He blushed most deliciously.

“Thank you very much, sir”, Mr. Gregson said. “I have never seen Father so happy; Isa's mother said that he wept at the Tower, although of course she did not see that.”

“A lady must know when to see and not see certain things”, Miss LeStrade said firmly. “For example, your dear father was very emotional when he brought Mother back to our house. Father asked him how it had all gone, and when he came to say goodbye your father hugged them both.”

We all stared at her in astonishment. Despite both being or having been happily married men I would have rated both LeStrade and Gregson as two of the most unemotional men on the whole damn planet!

“It was all rather amusing”, Miss LeStrade smiled, “and Mother was hard put not to laugh. Your father fled back to his house, the poor fellow.”

“I wondered why he rushed in so quickly”, Mr. Gregson said. “Well!”

“Now we must be off”, Miss LeStrade said. “I believe that there is a rather interesting shop in Baker Street which sells items that make for a most enjoyable honeymoon.”

“Yes, it is called 'That Shop'....” John began.

We all looked at him. He had gone bright red.

“What sort of shop is it?” Mr. Gregson inquired.

“You will soon find out, dear”, his future wife said brightly. “Good day, gentlemen.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It really was wrong of John to hum the Death March once our two guests were gone. Wrong but, for poor Mr. Tristram Gregson who would soon be as mortified as his father, more than arguably accurate.

We did not see him for quite some time thereafter, and when we did.... oh dear! And I had thought poor Luke looked bad after Benji!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	21. Case 198: The Prisoner Of Azkaban

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. A dying man faces having to watch his scheming nephew steal an inheritance away from the grandson he had intended it for – can he outwit the villain?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as Colonel Carruthers and the Smith-Mortimer inheritance.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

After the troubles caused to me by my traitorous grandfather Lieutenant Sacheverell Watson, I could have been forgiven to have wanted nothing more to do with any Watsons apart from my brother Stevie and his family. However I did have one other relation worthy of note who, although she had passed the previous year, was to inadvertently help supply us with our next adventure.

My maternal aunt Janet had lived in my mother's home county of Roxburghshire but had married an American businessman Mr. Richie _(not_ Richard) Johnson and had left for the village of Portsmouth, Lancashire, not long before Stevie and I had quitted Northumberland. The two had lived happily together for some years while he had travelled frequently across the wide ocean before he had died in 'Ninety-One, oddly passing just six days before my own date with destiny in his homeland although he himself had lived in faraway Pennsylvania. Uncle Richie's brother Dorian had brought his brother's body back to England, and with his home-town of Erie suffering from both food shortages and the general economic depression, had decided to stay and use his money to set himself and his sister-in-law up at a guest-house. 

Despite my aunt's passing the business had continued to thieve such that it had recently been recommended in the snooty Bradshaw, although the name 'Open Dor's' was a little too American for my tastes. It had I thought been an odd location for such an establishment but had proven to be a most excellent one given with the Victorian passion for hill-walking, and despite the name 'Open Dor's' was nearly always full. Sherlock and I even had to settle for a twin room.

We coped.

Mr. Dorian Johnson was a tall, muscular and handsome fellow of about forty years of age, who had a strange passion for early-morning runs but was otherwise a sound enough fellow. His accent reminded me of the pain of my recent parting but I had Sherlock back again and I could live with that, even if our host sometimes shook his head at the two of us. 

To clarify the 'borderline confusion' over which several of my readers questioned me when this story was originally published, the village of Portsmouth had been in Lancashire until the 1888 Local Government Act, a few years prior to when this story was set. As well as removing nearly all the remaining exclaves around the generally untidy English county borders this act shifted the village in this story, which lay at the end of some 'ribbon development' from Todmorden, to join that town in the West Riding of Yorkshire. 'Open Dor's' was despite the Portsmouth address just over the border into Lancashire; oddly the railway station which did 'transfer' continued to be called Portsmouth (Lancs.). Although we were only a short train-ride from the towns of Todmorden (which I quite liked) and Burnley (rather less so), we might as well have been on another planet, only the sound of trains chuffing by in the distance reminding us that we were still connected to the rest of civilization.

That and, almost predictably, another case.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was morning in 'Open Dor's', in the penultimate week of our stay there. I had been reading about a new shop opening in Leeds which was owned by two gentlemen called Marks and Spencer – an unusual combination, I had thought – when I became aware that Mr. Johnson was frowning over a letter that he had received in the morning post.

“Is something wrong?” I asked courteously.

“Your friend’s stay here may be Providence”, he muttered. “It looks like I might need his services myself.”

He would say no more but I guessed that he had approached Sherlock in private not long after we had finished eating. I felt more than a little warm when a maid called at my room saying that my friend was asking for me. Mr. Johnson looked more than a little ruffled at my arrival and I took that to mean that he had perhaps objected to my presence. I took out my notebook and waited.

“The doctor documents _all_ my cases, sir”, Sherlock said pointedly. “Without exception and whomsoever the client may be, great or small. Your secrets are safe in his hands, sir.”

My sort-of relative looked uncertain but proceeded with his tale.

“Gentlemen”, he said, “shortly after I brought my late brother's body back here, I had to make one more trip across the wide Atlantic Ocean. Bearing in mind the tendency of my own countrymen to reach for a gun at any opportunity it was somewhat ironic that I faced my only mortal danger upon my return to Albion. There on the quayside at Liverpool I found a man abusing his wife most sorely. Words were exchanged between us, there was a scuffle and he tried to fire a gun at me but only succeeded in shooting himself. He died just hours later; mercifully the local police were excellent and after a short investigation I was cleared of any wrongdoing. Except that to my shock the lady declared herself attached to _me_ of all people!”

He sounded quite indignant at that. I suppressed a smile.

“Howsoever”, he went on, “the lady proved quite charming and eventually I agreed to accept her hand in marriage. Her name was Miss Caroline Turner and she hailed from Derbyshire. The only slight mar to our happiness was that she had told me, very fairly before I took her hand, that she could never have children. This had been something of a blow but I had responded that while I might hope at some future time to add one boy and one girl unto our family, I would totally respect her wishes as regarded adoption. To my joy she wished to have a boy and the procedures were almost complete when she was tragically taken from us during an outbreak of whooping-cough, barely a year after I had married her. Her last request was that I care for the boy that we had so nearly acquired together, and I swore on the Good Book so to do.”

“The boy’s name was Master Roger Benenden and I strove quickly to obtain a set of parents for him in lieu of myself and poor Caroline. Joseph and Irene Smith-Mortimer were friends of hers and an excellent couple; he grew up well with them and adopted their name – he expressly wished it, so it was done - and recently attained his twelfth birthday. He is a fine boy and I have placed a sum of money in the bank for him each Christmas and birthday, to be presented to him on his coming of age. Needless to say he is as yet unaware of my existence; he will be informed of it on his eighteenth birthday.”

“Who is caring for the boy now?” I asked.

“Some friends of Joseph, the Currens”, he said. “A good family; Roger goes to the same school as two of their sons, although not in the same year. To continue, Roger's father was, at the time that I arranged matters as regards the boy, a second son and not likely to inherit much from his father, although he had a good job in a bank and his wife also had an income of her own. Last year however matters changed with the sudden death of his elder brother Rupert who had been barely thirty-five years of age; he had been a soldier over in India I understand and had contracted some disease or other. This meant that the considerable estate of their father Evelyn would devolve upon Joseph and hence eventually to young Roger - except that most unhappily Joseph and Irene both died in the Chorley train crash only a few months later. Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer himself died last month and his will, which did leave everything to his grandson, was immediately contested by his nephew Colonel Horatio Carruthers, the son of his sister Roberta and next in line after Roger. He claims that as the boy is adopted, he cannot therefore inherit.”

“That would depend on the precise wording of the late Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer's will”, Sherlock said. “Unless it pointedly excluded adopted children there would not be a bar.”

Mr. Johnson sighed heavily.

“The rat doing the contesting is a scoundrel of the first order”, he said. “Worst of all, a scoundrel with deep pockets. I am trying to help the boy, but I cannot hope to match his financial fire-power. I may have to yield simply because of the lawyers’ fees.”

“Ah”, said, Sherlock, “but you do have one advantage that the colonel has not.”

Mr. Johnson looked puzzled.

“What is that, sir?” he asked.

“Why the services of London’s best consulting detective of course!” Sherlock exclaimed. 

“If not the most modest!” I added, rather more loudly that I had intended. Mr. Johnson chuckled at that and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at me that quite clearly indicated I would pay for that remark later.

I should have mentioned how cold it was in that room just then.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We were once again not that far from Brontë Country which I had been lucky enough to visit during our case in Arnsworth Castle some six years ago. We therefore called in to Keighley and were fortunate to find Mr. Neil Stephenson, who thanks to Sherlock had found the wealth bequeathed to him by his father and had married his lady from Settle. He was now twenty-eight years of age and the proud father of two girls and a boy with a fourth child on the way, and he thanked us again for all our efforts on his behalf. I think from the way that Sherlock was looking at me that he was again wondering if I missed not having this – the Victorian ideal of the wife and children in a family home – but I had him instead, which was so much better. And when I told him that in the cab afterwards and followed it up with a kiss, he blushed mightily.

We did not for some reason call in on the Huffington-Brands in their 'hovel'. If we had and their neighbours had been aware of our involvement in their sufferings for the past six years, we would certainly have been set upon!

Sherlock also fitted in another visit to Haworth for me and he later took us to the ruins at Top Withens, the inspiration for the novel 'Wuthering Heights' although we had to walk some way to see it. Of course the British weather had to intrude into my enjoyment of a great day out and the clouds opened when we were but halfway back to our carriage. Fortunately a ruined old barn offered at least some protection from the suddenly ferocious weather and we almost fell over our feet as we hurried inside it. I turned to grin at my friend - but my smile vanished almost immediately when I saw the look on his face. It was positively feral!

“I want you!” he all but snarled. “Now!”

I nodded frantically but he had got his trousers off in record time and was now palming his impressive cock out into the cold autumn air. I whimpered piteously; hell I was a man too (I was _fairly_ sure of that with what little remained of my brain) but I always lost all control when I was with Sherlock. He used his taller but more slender body to position me on a hay-covered flat surface and worked me open with impressive speed before thrusting his way inside me.. I could only lie there with my eyes watering, wondering what I had done in a previous life to deserve such bliss. 

“I liked my present”, he muttered into my neck.

For a moment my brain misfired but then I remembered that for his fortieth birthday that morning I had given Sherlock a hat-box for the original deer-stalker that he had inherited from the ill-starred Lord Tobias Hawke, whom I now knew to have been his half-brother. He now had safe and secure ways to store two of his most treasured possessions – after me, of course!

“But I can always ask for more”, he growled. “I always want more from you, John. And I intend to take it!”

With that he thrust the Lieutenant-Colonel into me even harder and for once I actually beat him to orgasm, coming violently as he whispered praises and thanks into my neck before erupting inside of me, shredding my senses such that I was no longer in a cold and almost roofless barn on a Yorkshire moor but in Heaven. I gasped for breath but reached up and kissed him tenderly. Lord but I loved this man!

Which was just as well. He had to help me walk back to the carriage, which I was sure had not been that far away when we had stopped. And the ride back was excruciating, made infinitely worse by a certain someone's proud smirk.

All right, he had just cause, but it was still annoying!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day we had an appointment with Mr. Reginald Bradstreet, the lawyer in charge of administering the Smith-Mortimer family estate. We all sat down and he explained the legal situation to us in a speech which, were I to repeat it _verbatim_ would have been enough for a story of its own! To spare the reader I shall paraphrase.

In the months before and after the loss of both of his sons, Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer himself had suffered some form of debilitating illness which, most unhappily, had led to him falling into the clutches of his nephew Colonel Horatio Carruthers who had moved into the Smith-Mortimer family home and ensconced himself there. Mr. Bradstreet, correctly guessing that the fellow was positioning himself to challenge young Roger Smith-Mortimer's right to inherit, had represented several times to his client the importance of clearing up the wording of the estate’s conditions of inheritance but the colonel himself had always pooh-poohed the idea, stating that only a fool would try to disinherit the boy. Once the old man had passed however he had proven himself no fool, for he had immediately done just that. Even before the funeral, the lawyer spluttered indignantly.

The problem was that Colonel Carruthers’s control of his uncle’s household during his last few weeks had been Draconian. Nothing and no-one had been allowed to come in and out, and even his lawyer had been prevented from seeing him. Mr. Bradstreet was all but certain that it had been Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s intention to leave a new will clarifying matters – he had rallied slightly in his last few weeks - but his nephew had prevented him from so doing. It again reminded me of the dreadful Huffington-Brands who in that instance had been outwitted by their elderly relative; I could only hope that Mr. Smith-Mortimer had been just as wily. 

We left the offices and adjourned to a nearby restaurant for luncheon. Mr. Johnson was clearly depressed at the morning’s events.

“If I am to make anything of this case”, Sherlock said, “I will need to speak with the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s servants. My intuition tells me that they hold the key to this matter.”

Mr. Johnson nodded and took out a piece of paper which he handed across to Sherlock. 

“The first three are the ones worth pursuing”, he said. “They were all fond of their late master by all accounts and were all dismissed upon his death. The fourth fellow, John Wishaw, chose to assist Colonel Carruthers in his evil ambitions and has been kept on for his sins.”

“Ambitions that we must endeavour to thwart”, Sherlock said, looking down the list. “The cook, the maid, the butler. We shall start with the heart of the home, the kitchen, and visit Mrs. Olivia Damson.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The late Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer had lived in Oswaldtwistle, a small Lancashire town not far from Portsmouth the other side of Burnley. Fortunately for our inquiries two of the staff recommended to us by Mr. Johnson had both moved to Manchester in pursuit of work after his death which meant that we could visit them on the same day, although the third was currently down in London so would have to wait for our return home. 

After spending what seemed like an eternity assuring Mrs. Damson’s employer Mrs. Featherstone - a married woman of over sixty who batted her eyelashes at Sherlock in a most unbecoming manner! - that her cook was _not_ a hardened criminal or a secret axe-murderer (I almost wished), the three of us were finally allowed to descend to talk to her. Sherlock had wisely refrained from telling the woman that we were pursuing a murder investigation or we would never have got there!

Mrs. Olivia Damson was a matronly lady in her fifties, very smartly dressed and clearly queen of all she surveyed. She was supervising the cooking of something that smelled absolutely heavenly. She took us into a small side-room and sat calmly waiting for our questions.

Look, there was only _one_ simper!

“This concerns your late employer Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer”, Sherlock began, with an annoying smile in my direction. “In particular his relationship with his nephew Colonel Horatio Carruthers.”

Mrs. Damson’s expression changed abruptly, as if she had just stepped in something unpleasant.

“That 'personage'!” she said scornfully. “Mr. Smith-Mortimer was a wonderful old gentleman but something rotten got into the branch of the family tree that produced the colonel. A Thoroughly Bad Lot.”

She enunciated the capitals quite clearly. I smiled at her firmness.

“Mrs. Damson”, Sherlock said, “although you may not have had any direct dealings with Mr. Smith-Mortimer you are clearly a most observant lady. I would welcome any observations that you may have had on the last few months of your late employer’s life. In particular anything that struck you as out of the ordinary.”

She thought for a moment.

“I am sure such gentlemen as yourself know the way the land lay as regards dear Mr. Smith-Mortimer and his blackguard of a nephew”, she said. “As the cook I saw little – but there was one strange thing which concerned his eating habits, and food is my _forte_. Though I do not see how it could help you, I am afraid.”

“Yet clearly you noticed it”, Sherlock smiled. “What was it?”

She looked embarrassed before saying rather quietly, “the ketchup.”

I wondered if I had misheard her.

“Pardon?” I asked. She reddened slightly.

“Mr. Smith-Mortimer always loved that _horrible_ brown ketchup, especially on fish and chips”, she said looking as if she expected us to pour scorn on her suggestion. “Vile stuff! The shop sent a bottle of some other type once I remember, and he hated it! Yet four weeks before he passed, he suddenly went off it. In my experience people rarely change their tastes let alone at his age, so I thought it rather peculiar.”

“Did he have anything else instead?” Sherlock asked. 

“He had a slice of lemon for a couple of weeks”, she said, “then he tried some red sauce with herbs added to it. That was a week before he passed on.”

“Mrs. Damson”, Sherlock said with a smile, “thank you very much. That is exactly what I had hoped that you would say. You have been most helpful, and if I am able to bring this case to a successful conclusion I shall communicate that fact to you here.”

We bowed ourselves away from the cook (all right, I caught a second simper directed at someone who was not in the medical profession) and once we were on our way to our next port of call I asked Sherlock what he had meant.

“Think”, he said. “We know that Mr. Smith-Mortimer was virtually a prisoner in his own home in his last few weeks. I fully expected him to develop a sudden taste for lemon-flavoured fish.”

He looked at us both as if it were obvious, which I found downright annoying because it most definitely was not!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Our second call that day was to Miss Anne Brasted, housemaid to the late Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer. Her new post was working for an agency which organized the cleaning of certain businesses in the town and it was our good fortune that it was her half-day so we were able to catch her at home. She was about twenty-five years old, plain but well-presented. Her parents were a little alarmed at our arrival but all was soon explained although Miss Braishfield shyly asked if they could remain for the interview, to which request Sherlock acceded.

“I would like to know more about your late employer Mr. Smith-Mortimer”, Sherlock said. “In particular what sort of person was he? Did he socialize much for example?”

She looked surprised at that.

“Goodness me no sir!” she said firmly. “The only gentleman he used to see at all was Mr. Benezet who lived over the hill.”

I looked up in surprise at the curious expression.

“The house, 'Azkaban', is on a hill some way back from the road”, she explained. “And there is almost no traffic so it is very quiet. The only other house you can see from its windows is 'Lilyhurst', Mr. Benezet’s house which is on its own hill over the road; all the houses have big gardens with lots of trees so you cannot see the houses to either side. He was a very nice man was Mr. Benezet; lived there with a friend of his Mr. Wallace. Neither of them married but both _real_ gentlemen, so it was all quite proper.”

I thought wryly of Sherlock and a certain ruined barn on the Yorkshire moors. What we had got up to there had most definitely not been 'all quite proper'. The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth told me that he was thinking much the same.

“I presume such contact stopped once Colonel Carruthers arrived?” he asked.

The maid's face had much the same look as her fellow servant's had had a few hours before.

“That villain!” she said bitterly. “He made a most improper suggestion as to how I might keep my post, and poor Mr. Smith-Mortimer not even cold! I told him exactly where he could shove it, if you’ll pardon my French!”

I liked the girl’s spirit.

“I had the good fortune to speak with Mrs. Damson earlier today”, Sherlock said. “She is doing well in her new post. I would like to ask you much the same question that I asked her. Did your employer do anything unusual, even slightly out of the ordinary, during the time that Colonel Carruthers was there?”

She frowned as she thought back.

“Yes, he moved”, she said. “That was a bit odd, I thought.”

“Moved?” I asked. She nodded.

“His bedroom used to be in the back of the house”, she said. “Very nice it was, overlooking the gardens and all, a lovely warm room with a balcony you could sit on in good weather. But he wanted to be moved to the front and right up the East Tower.”

She saw our confusion and smiled. 

“I'm sorry sirs, I see you haven't been there. The place was built like an old-style castle and there were these round towers at each of the two front corners; it even had the up and down bits on them and all along the top of the house. He moved into the top floor of the left tower as you looked at it from the road; they had to hoist his bed in and set it up right by the window. Mrs. Damson said she had heard him say his doctor had told him he needed lots of light for something wrong with his skin. Had to be that as the room was bitter cold, in my opinion.”

I supposed that that was plausible. Some skin complaints responded well to lots of sunlight, and if the old bedroom had been on the opposite side of the house then perhaps it had been in too shady a position.

“I thought it was more because he wanted to know if his nephew was coming up”, she sniffed. “A good view of the path up to the front door unlike the other tower which was behind a tree, and the stairs leading up creaked something awful so there was no way he could drop in without his knowing he was coming. But the colonel hardly ever went up there. He just checked us all in and out and made sure we weren't smuggling out messages or anything. He was horrid!”

Sherlock was clearly about to thank her and leave when she suddenly spoke up again.

“Oh and there was the mirror.”

“What about the mirror?” Sherlock asked.

“He broke a mirror that was hanging on the wall of his new room”, she said. “Seven years bad luck I remember thinking, though the poor man barely had seven weeks left as it turned out. I loaned him my old one, a small hand-held thing that came with a stand. I suppose it must be still there.”

“Thank you, madam”, Sherlock said. “You have been _most_ helpful. We shall not impinge on your goodwill any longer and I promise that I shall communicate any findings that I make to you at this address.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

On the way back to our lodgings Sherlock asked Mr. Johnson where Colonel Carruthers was now.

“Azkaban, I suppose”, he said morosely. “He has I would wager stripped the place bare just in case he loses. Poor Roger. Is there any hope, do you think?”

“It all depends on the butler, Jackson”, Sherlock said. “He is with his master in London so we can see him on our return there. Will you be accompanying us?”

“I think that I shall”, he said. “I have wanted to visit the city for some time, and I am sure that I can find rooms for a couple of weeks there.”

“Mrs. Hudson may still have a spare room at 221B, as Miss Cherrywood has moved in permanently with her parents after her father's fall”, Sherlock said. “Our landlady's rooms are excellent, and her cooking plain but copious.”

“Sounds my kind of gal!” Mr. Johnson beamed.

 _'Gal?'_ I thought. _Honestly. Americans!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We returned to Baker Street the following week; Sherlock managed to procure a meeting with the butler the same day and he came to Baker Street that evening. Mr. Gilbert Jackson was about forty years of age, debonair and assured as only a good English butler can be. His expression on the mention of his late employer's nephew was even more disdainful than that of his fellow servants.

“First I wish to reassure you that everything you say within these walls will remain confidential”, Sherlock said. “I already know a great deal about what happened at Azkaban but I need you to fill in several important gaps in that knowledge. I know that at some point in his last few weeks of his life Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer gave you a list. What was it about?”

The look on the butler's face was verging on startled at Sherlock's apparent omniscience. He hesitated before speaking.

“Mr. Smith-Mortimer wanted to return a book to the library, sir”, he said, “and for me to pick up some items from the grocery store.”

I thought that rather odd. Would not that sort of thing have been done by a housekeeper or another servant? 

“Why did he not send the maid?” Sherlock asked, mirroring my thoughts. The butler reddened.

“Colonel Carruthers normally had Mr. Wishaw search anyone who left the building carrying anything, sir”, he said, “but he had been sent out on an errand that day so he had to do it himself. Miss Brasted told him that if he laid one hand on her she would scream, resign and fetch the police, so he sent her back to her duties. I offered to go in her place as the book was nearly overdue; my master was very conscientious over such things.”

“Do you remember the title?” Sherlock asked. The butler shook his head.

“I think that it was something to do with Ancient Rome, from the picture on the cover. But I cannot recall the title, I am afraid.”

“Do you remember the items on the list?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes, sir. Half a dozen eggs, a tin of custard powder and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce.”

“You went to the grocery store first and then onto the library?”

The butler seemed to hesitate for some reason.

“Yes, sir”, he said.

“Did you meet anyone at either place?” Sherlock asked.

“I saw Mrs. Funnel from 'Little Giddings' at the store, sir.”

Sherlock sat back and looked at our visitor. There was a pointed silence, then my friend smiled a slow smile.

“You are a good and faithful servant”, he said. “You have not told me several things but I know all, now. Do not worry. All will be resolved possibly even by the end of today, and I shall communicate any developments to you at your new master's address.”

The butler looked distinctly unsettled but nodded. 

“Thank you, sir”, he said.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“My only regret”, Sherlock said later as he pulled out the extension to our table, “is that I am unable to confront that scoundrel of a colonel personally over his actions. But he will learn of the failure of his schemes soon enough and Luke will make sure that he pays fully for his crimes. Perhaps you had better go down and retrieve Mr. Johnson.”

I was saved a trip by a knock at our door and opened it to find Mr. Johnson, Mr. Bradstreet and two unknown gentlemen of about my own age standing outside. I ushered them in and soon we were all seated around the table. Rather oddly considering that it was mid-afternoon Sherlock turned on the large table-lamp.

“Now”, he said, “we are gathered here today to hear the reading of a will, specifically the last will and testament of the late Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer. Mr. Benezet, Mr. Wallace; thank you both for returning to England at such short notice. If you please?”

He held out his hand expectantly to the shorter of the two unknown men who hesitated only briefly before pulling open the briefcase he was carrying and extracting a sheet of blue paper. Sherlock took it and placed it before a clearly bewildered Mr. Bradstreet. I could see that it was the shopping-list that Mr. Jackson had been sent out with, although oddly there were two signatures at the bottom of it.

“Sir, this is but a shopping-list!” the lawyer proclaimed. Sherlock smiled.

“Gentlemen, let me tell you a story”, he said. “It concerns an elderly gentleman who is dying and who is unfortunate enough to have fallen into the clutches of a grasping nephew. The current terms of the estate inheritance rules mean that the nephew has a chance of claiming that estate from the rightful heir, the gentleman's grandson, but said nephew has an iron grip on the household so there is no way that the dying man can do anything.”

“Or is there? He may be on his way to the next world but this gentleman is much cleverer than his unwanted watchdog gives him credit for. He hatches a most cunning plan. First he tells his staff that his doctor has been prescribed more light and that he needs be moved to the front of the house. From the description that we had, we know that his new sleeping quarters were cramped, cold and exposed, far inferior to his old bedroom, yet he wanted to be there. Why? The answer is simple. From that room he could see directly to the house of his friends across the road. Which meant that if he could _see_ , he could also _signal.”_

I noticed how the two gentlemen had both gone red.

“He is very careful”, Sherlock went on. “He knows that if he asks for a mirror, his scheming nephew might come to suspect what is afoot, so he deliberately breaks the mirror in the room and borrows a replacement – one that he can hold – from a maid. Miss Brasted was quite correct in thinking that her master wished to know if his nephew was in the house, as he could then use those times to flash heliographic messages across the valley. Sure enough his friends spot the flashes, realize what is going on and communication is established.”

“Time is short, and Mr. Smith-Mortimer flashes a message that at a certain date in the near future a piece of paper will be taken out of the house to a place where his friend and his friend's associate should be ready. But the man knows that any paper removed from the house is checked, by either his nephew or his accomplice Mr. Wishaw. So what does he do?”

Sherlock paused and looked round at us all. 

“He changes his diet!”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Why?”

“It was the ketchup that gave me the clue”, Sherlock said. “Or not so much the ketchup but the lemon that replaced it. Mr. Smith-Mortimer knows that whatever he writes down will be checked by his nephew, so he covertly saves the lemon slices and from them he squeezes enough lemon juice to create a form of what is called evanescent ink. He is careful not to underestimate his nephew, knowing that if he had asked for a whole lemon from the kitchen then that too might have aroused suspicion.”

He took the letter and held it against the lamp. Slowly, faint brown markings began to appear between the blue ink. The lawyer leaned forward in anticipation.

“I can tell you, Mr. Bradstreet”, Sherlock said, “that English law has already had one instance of where a famous prankster wrote a final will in evanescent ink, and a judge decided that as it was clearly his intent and had been both signed and witnessed by people who knew of its contents, it was therefore legal. The case was Ferrers versus Mabberley, from 'Seventy-Two.”

“But the will was not witnessed!” I objected. Sherlock gestured to Mr. Benezet and Mr. Wallace. 

“Mr. Benezet and Mr. Wallace knew to meet the butler in the library at a certain time on a certain date”, he said. “Jackson did not tell us, but he was smart enough to suspect his master's plan. He went along with it and gave these gentlemen the so-called shopping-list which they warmed up enough to see and then signed. Unfortunately business called these gentlemen away to Ireland just before their friend passed on. I believe that the colonel had an inkling that they knew something or perhaps he was just making doubly sure, for they have received at least two telegrams purporting to come from their friend saying that all was well. When I alerted them to the truth they rushed back at once.”

“The blackguard could not have hoped to get away with it”, I said.

“As Mr. Johnson fears he has likely stripped the estate bare as a precaution”, Sherlock said. “We will as I said have to employ Luke's offices to retrieve what he has stolen, but he will ensure that justice is done no matter how long it takes.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Colonel Carruthers had indeed already enriched himself from the estate but Mr. Lucifer Garrick was able to claw back all his ill-gotten gains and the villain eventually left the country; Sherlock did however keep track of his movements just in case. Young Roger Smith-Mortimer thanked Sherlock most handsomely for his help and duly came into his full inheritance upon his majority nine years later. The 'invisible will' also yielded small but welcome inheritances for the cook, the maid and the butler 'for services rendered'. And even the manservant John Wishaw got something - _a book on how to be a better servant!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	22. Case 199: The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-Nez

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. A difficult time for Miss Josephine Thackeray, niece to the estimable Mrs. Hudson. The young lady not only sees rather more of 221B's newest tenant that she could have wished but worse, stands accused of theft and looks set to lose her job. Fortunately she has a Sherlock to hand.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: My estimable readers will recall that this case was published some ten years after the events described herein, well 'out of sequence' in my list of works. While I usually respect the rights of minors to privacy, this particular young criminal's subsequent 'career', which ended when she was but twenty-one years of age in her rightful execution for murder, means that I have no such scruples in this case.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

This case arose out of a piece of _faux_ jewellery worth no more than a few shillings at most. Yet it ended up involving politics, dark dealings and led ultimately to a double murder. As such, it deserves to be placed before my wonderful readers (I still refuse to use my publisher's ghastly phrase ‘my fandom’). It is a hard life being an author, although how Sherlock managed to catch my eye just as I was done writing the word 'hard' I do not know! It is fortunate that I only blush in a manly fashion. And that had better bloody well not be another damn smirk from 'someone' in the vicinity!

Appropriately (and as it turned out, fortuitously) enough this case started on All Hallow’s Eve which fell on a Wednesday that year. Sherlock had just finished assisting his brother Randall in a rather difficult diplomatic matter and, unusually for my friend, had actually requested payment. Not for himself of course but he had told his brother that the government needed to do more for the hundred plus victims of the mining disaster† in Glamorganshire a few months back. When the lounge-lizard had whined about 'difficulties', Sherlock had casually mentioned that perhaps their mother needed to hear about the matter of the rubber duck and the parlourmaid who.....

His brother had been out of the door before he had finished!. Not only for the obvious but because the last time Sherlock had been compelled to inform their mother of the lounge-lizard's behaviour, she had been 'inspired' to write a story about it – the one about the government official who put it abut so often that he had to give himself an electric charge every weekend, 'Saturday Night Fever' - which Randall had then had to sit there and listen to. I may or may not have laughed at that, and any chocolate that I had at about that same time had not been a celebration bar whatever anyone had smirked. 

I mean, 'had said'.

The first hint of trouble had shown itself when Mrs. Hudson herself had brought our breakfast up the Wednesday before. This in itself was unusual as the job was by habit delegated to one of her maids using the 'dumb-waiter'. Her presence was not however the sort of thing that a gentleman could easily comment on, especially when he was scared to death by a landlady who kept more than one pistol in the house.

I cannot say how much it irked me that Sherlock knew the reason for this change, as was evinced by his first words. Though I was feeling quite kindly disposed towards him at that moment as the day before he had praised my final draft of 'The Empty House' before I had dispatched it to the publishers. His return – for obvious reasons I spared my Victorian readers details of certain horizontal, vertical and diagonal events subsequent to it - had been one of the most difficult stories ever to get right and at one point I had torn up all my notes in frustration and started again from scratch. Finally however, it was done and I was glad to see the back of it. Nor had I forgotten my promise to Miss Ivy Haverstock (despite her unwonted simpering!) and my publishers had been instructed to send me one of the first copies to sign so that I could forward it to St. Etheldreda's.

“I see that there was a suffragist meeting in Bayswater last night”, Sherlock said blithely.

Mrs. Hudson tensed as she was laying out the breakfast things but said nothing.

“You are concerned over your niece”, he said calmingly. 

“She persuaded Chem to take her to that meeting!” Mrs. Hudson said, sounding almost angry. “Fools, the pair of them!”

After the recent Smith-Mortimer Case Mr. Dorian Johnson had stayed a fortnight with us before returning home to Lancashire. His advent had overlapped that of Mr. Charles 'Chem' Malone who had moved into the oddly-named 'Room Zero', a small spare-room next to Mrs. Hudson's offices which for some reason she had decided to turn into extra accommodation (I had found that odd because the room was tiny, barely a fraction of the size of her other rooms including our own). My readers may remember that our landlady had first met and seen rather a lot of Mr. Malone after our case with him. I had been surprised if not astonished that such a tall fellow had gone for such a small room, but for her to call him that? Hmm.

I remembered that pistol and kept my thoughts to just that 'hmm'.

“I saw her going off to work this morning”, Sherlock said, nodding at my unspoken thoughts in his usual, annoying way. “The white‡ brooch that she was wearing is quite openly political.”

“I know”, Mrs. Hudson admitted. “I only hope that the fool girl does not get into trouble over it.”

None of us had any idea then just how much 'trouble' Miss Josephine Thackeray was about to get herself into.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

On that particular day Sherlock and I had a dinner appointment with Mrs. Ruby Brown, one of our surgery’s main beneficiaries. It would be truer to say that I had an appointment with the lady but that I had been asked (begged) to bring my clever friend with me and Sherlock had obligingly agreed to accompany me. We had enjoyed a tolerable evening out except for Mrs. Brown's two daughters both acting far too coquettishly towards my friend (and one of them was engaged, for heaven's sake!). I could not take the fellow anywhere!

As the evening was fairly mild we decided to walk the short distance back home rather than take a cab. We arrived back to 221B safely enough but on entering the building heard the unmistakeable sound of an argument going on between Mrs. Hudson and her niece. I knew from experience that the ladies were of similar temperaments and that when they clashed it was better not to be in the same room. Preferably not even in the same town.

Coward that I was I would have bolted upstairs and waited for them to approach us the next day if they had required any assistance. Instead Sherlock dragged me bodily forwards – it was totally unfair that he was stronger than me although there were I supposed certain compensations – and we were knocking at Mrs. Hudson’s door before I could object. Surprisingly it was opened by a worried-looking Mr. Malone, whose faced visibly cleared on seeing us. 

“Thank the Lord that you are here, sirs!” he said fervently. “Perhaps you can sort out this unholy mess!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Between the two ladies talking over each other and Mr. Malone doing a Greek chorus wringing his hands in the background, we eventually managed to piece together the day’s events which, it seemed, had culminated in Miss Thackeray being suspended from her employment as a teacher at the Fairleigh Academy for Girls in Marylebone. It had always been a source of astonishment to me that this firecracker of a young lady had ended up as a teacher, yet somehow she fitted into the job perfectly. It was claimed – and I disbelieved it the very minute that I heard it – that she had stolen a set of commemorative pure gold pince-nez from the office of the headmistress Miss Brazen. Not only would Miss Thackeray have no need of such a trinket, she was as honest as the day was long. I would have staked my reputation on that.

“Ladies!” Sherlock said in a much sharper tone than he normally used. “Now I am of course at your disposal in this matter, but even the basest of consulting detectives needs the facts of the case before they start. Miss Thackeray, you will come upstairs with the doctor and I while you Mrs. Hudson will prepare us each a strong coffee – I know you do not usually partake, Miss Thackeray, but needs must – and you shall then recite what happened, calmly and in order of events. The doctor will take his notes and we shall proceed from there.”

When he chose to exert it Sherlock could have an almost hypnotic effect on those around him, and ten minutes later Miss Thackeray was duly telling us all about her troubles. 

“It all started with the new term in September”, she said. “The Academy was a three-form school last year and I taught the smallest children, between five to seven. But the school was doing so well that Ursula – Miss Brazen the headmistress – decided to expand and to hire another teacher.”

“You and this new teacher have not been compatible?” Sherlock asked. She nodded. 

“The other staff are all right”, she said, a tad grudgingly I thought. “Miss Rood teaches the youngest class now; she is the quietest thing imaginable but good with them. Miss Parrot – she is like her name; can talk the hind leg off a donkey - is all right I suppose. She teaches the eight- and nine-year-olds while I now have mostly seven-year-olds with a few advanced sixes and slower eights. No, it is the new teacher Miss Vyne. She insists the girls in her class addresses her as Cordelia which practice is she says 'in vogue' in many schools. Rather risky I would have thought as Miss Brazen only employed her as she did me when I started, on a term’s trial.”

“But if you are gone that then puts Miss Brazen one teacher short at a time when few are wanting new posts”, Sherlock observed, “and thus in turn places Miss Vyne in a stronger position. Interesting. Tell me, when you went in with that brooch this morning, did Miss Brazen object?”

“No”, Miss Thackeray said. “Of course I went straight to her that day to say why I was wearing it and that I would remove it if she felt it inadvisable, but she said that while she was no campaigner herself she was strongly in support of freedom of speech, and provided that I did not wear it when parents were around she had no issues with it. She has no real politics herself – she distrusts all politicians equally, she says – but she demands that the older girls are taught the basics of the subject.”

“Would that not mean you having to take it off at the start and finish of each day when the parents come in?” I asked. 

She looked at me in surprise.

“Doctor”, she said firmly, “Miss Brazen does not allow _parents_ beyond the front desk except for parents' evenings and scheduled appointments. The last time one of them complained about that, they were invited to take their child and their fees elsewhere!”

I smiled. I was beginning to form a highly favourable mental picture of this Miss Brazen. 

“Did any of the other teachers object to the brooch?” Sherlock asked. “It seems rather coincidental that your troubles occurred on the very day that you first wore it.”

“Miss Rood did not understand it even when I tried to explain it to her”, Miss Thackeray laughed. “Miss Parrot said that if _she_ ever married she would expect to ‘love, honour and obey’ her husband. Though at her age I would deem such an event highly unlikely for which London’s men – or at least their eardrums - should be grateful! Miss Vyne looked at me rather oddly but said nothing, although I was sure that she disapproved.”

“How in your opinion would Miss Brazen react to my taking an interest in the case?” Sherlock asked. 

Miss Thackeray grinned.

“From the fact that she has every issue of the 'Strand' magazine on her bookshelf, I would say that she might just be all right with it!”

Sherlock looked hard at her for some reason.

“It is not like you to provoke your aunt in this way”, he said shrewdly, “and that brooch was definitely provocative, as you well knew. Why did you do it?”

She turned bright red. I looked at her curiously.

“Mr. Malone?” Sherlock suggested with a smile.

“What about Mr. Malone?” I asked, bewildered.

“He is.... courting my aunt”, Miss Thackeray sighed. “Or rather she is courting him; I doubt that he knows what that entails! I could live with that, but this morning he came out of her room wearing a dressing-gown!”

“Perhaps better than no dressing-gown?” I suggested. She gave me a murderous look and I thought instinctively of her gun collection. I may or may not have shifted very slightly away from that look and 'someone' had no reason to smile like that.

“His dressing-gown and nothing else”, she scowled. “It was all..... hanging out! So much for the older generation setting an example!”

I did not laugh. But it was close.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

About the only good thing about this whole sorry affair was that it broke on the day that it did. Virtually all schools, Fairleigh included, gave their students All Saints’ Day off as a holiday and as that day fell on a Thursday this year some schools stayed closed for the Friday as well. The Academy, Miss Thackeray told us, was planning to close to the children on both days and to have a parents’ 'evening' all day on Friday as this would enable them to accommodate those who had to work in the evenings. With Miss Thackeray's suspension it was therefore even more urgent that the case be cleared up quickly.

Knowing that Miss Brazen would be at her school Sherlock decided to take a chance and turn up unannounced, on the basis that we could at least obtain an appointment. As things turned out the precaution was unnecessary ,for on hearing of our arrival the headmistress told her secretary to send us straight in.

Miss Ursula Brazen was in her fifties; like many elderly teachers she had an indefinable quality about her that seemed ageless. She was short and stout whereas Miss Ivy Haverstock had been tall and thin, but both women had the same aura of power about them. She was wearing a dark blue, almost black dress and everything about her office evinced certainty about her position at the top of things. This was definitely a woman who was used to getting her own way, the unchallenged Queen of her Realm.

She then proceeded to undo all the good work of that first impression by simpering at someone who was not me. There was even a longing sigh! _Honestly!_

“My sincerest apologies for troubling you at this time, madam”, Sherlock said bowing deeply and doing that annoying not-smirk of his as he sat down. “I am a friend of Miss Thackeray and I am investigating this claim that she stole a pair of golden pince-nez from you. I am of course fully aware of the implication that if she did not commit his theft then another staff member is most likely to be implicated, but I intend to find out the truth in this matter. Are you in a position to help me?”

She sighed (and still somehow managed another simper, damnation!).

“Were it down to me alone”, she said ruefully, “I would be inclined to believe Miss Thackeray. But in the circumstances and with the stolen items found in her possession in front of witnesses, I had to act. I trust that you can see that?”

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “I wish to establish certain facts about the case and then to proceed from there. Is the stolen item the one that you are wearing this moment?”

She shook her head.

“This is my actual pair for short-sightedness”, she said. “The stolen ones were twenty-four carat gold but not real spectacles. These have become my trademark you see, and the governors of the school thought it fitting to present me with a replica of them to mark twenty-five years of service in education, although I have only been headmistress here for the last seven of those years.”

“Yet you re-created this place and have already established its reputation at a time when education is meant to be free for all”, Sherlock said. “That people are willing to pay for quality is, I would presume to judge, a fair indicator of success.”

Miss Brazen blushed. I feared that another simper was imminent.

“Now”, Sherlock said smiling slightly for a reason that I could well guess, “to the circumstances of the theft. When precisely did you become aware that the pince-nez were missing?”

“Yesterday at three o' clock”, she said. “As a rule they are kept in the cabinet with the school trophies, which as you saw is in the outer office. It impresses the parents on the very rare occasions that they are allowed in, and the governors of course. The pince-nez are kept on display towards the centre of the cabinet but I could not say for sure that they could not have been gone some days without being missed. Despite being on a wooden mount they are but a small item, and do not particularly stand out.”

“Who has the keys to the cabinet?” Sherlock asked.

“Myself, Miss Phelps - my secretary - and Mr. Kenwright the caretaker. As you can see I keep my keys on me at all times. Miss Phelps however had been away until this week, visiting her sister who is ill. She had no call to check the keys until the day in question, and I am sure that all the teachers would have known that they would likely be in her office and in an unlocked drawer.”

“Are the trophies worth anything?” I asked. She frowned.

“That is another odd thing”, she frowned. “Although they are as I said twenty-four carat gold the value of the pince-nez is but a few pounds, and some of the trophies are worth a lot more. Unless perhaps the thief only had time to seize one item.”

“Miss Thackeray did not mention a Mr. Kenwright”, Sherlock said. “Does he interact with the teaching staff at all?”

Miss Brazen pursed her lips. 

“It is a rather difficult situation”, she admitted. “Doubtless you noticed the old school being demolished next door when you arrived. When I looked into acquiring this site I had to negotiate with its previous owner who was moving his business to Yorkshire. Mr. Kenwright was his night-watchman and Mr. Bradley asked me to take him on as a favour in return for selling me the property. Legally I do not have to keep him on, but I feel morally obliged. He is quite elderly and I very much doubt that he would find employment elsewhere at his age. Also he clashes with Miss Phelps, who does not like him calling her 'Jess' as she finds it insulting.”

“You are not happy with his work?” Sherlock asked.

“He does the bare minimum”, Miss Brazen said, “which in the world of education is galling. Also he has of late clashed with Miss Vyne, my new teacher. My other staff always make the children tidy their classrooms before they go home which is quite right and proper, but she says that she believes in 'free expression'. Very.... modern.”

I hid a smile at the way she made that such a damning adjective.

“Who spotted the theft?” Sherlock asked, looking across at me for some reason.

“A girl called Arabella Buckley, one of our eldest”, Miss Brazen said. “She was in here for a bullying incident that I was investigating and that I thought – correctly – she to have been the instigator of. She said nothing to me but went and reported it to her teacher Miss Vyne, which I suppose is understandable. You think that the girl may have been involved?”

“I rather fear that she may have been”, Sherlock said gravely. “Would I be allowed to approach Miss Phelps for her address?”

The headmistress smiled knowingly.

“If you do”, she said, “I can guarantee that everyone in the school will know of it by end of day. If not sooner!”

Sherlock leaned forward.

“I do hope so!” he said.

And there was another simper! Damnation!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock briefly examined the returned pince-nez and we also visited Miss Thackeray's classroom before leaving, but there seemed to be nothing of any import in either instance. Miss Phelps provided us with Miss Arabella Buckley's address before we left and one look at the secretary told me that the headmistress had been all too right. She almost beat us out of the door in her determination to spread such juicy gossip!

All right, and she simpered at someone who was not me. Damnation!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The Buckleys lived in Mayfair, in an elegant town house. Once we were admitted however, it soon became clear that Mr. and Mrs. Buckley were not going to be co-operative.

“I do not care what reputation you have, Mr. Holmes”, Mrs. Buckley sniffed. “You are most definitely _not_ allowed to speak to our dear, sweet, innocent Arabella.”

Sherlock stood up.

“I see that this is pointless”, he said gravely, “and in a way I quite understand your viewpoint as parents. In truth I rather admire you for the _brave_ stand that you are taking over this matter.”

Both the Buckleys flinched at that.

“What do you mean, 'brave'?” Mr. Buckley demanded. 

Sherlock sighed heavily.

“I merely required confirmation of a most inadvisable deed done by your daughter which I know her to have committed”, he said with a shrug. “As a private detective, that would have been that. But once the Metropolitan Police are called in and it all becomes official....”

“The police!” Mrs. Buckley shrieked.

“I am afraid that it is _quite_ unavoidable”, Sherlock said firmly. “The publicity over such a renowned school will of course be _horrendous_. It may even reach the national newspapers, based as they are so close at hand. Although perhaps if you asked nicely, the local station might be prevailed upon to post a policeman outside your door to deter the vultures of the press. At least for the first few days.”

“Ye Gods Mr. Holmes, what has my daughter gone and done?” Mr. Buckley almost yelled.

“She has been a willing accomplice in a crime that has impacted on a lady whom I regard as a friend”, Sherlock said. “As such of course I myself would normally be pushing the police to prosecute to the _full_ extent of the law, though mercifully your daughter is as yet too young for gaol....”

Mr. Buckley shot to his feet and bolted across to the door which he pulled open.

_“Bella! Get here!”_

There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs and moments later a sulky-looking young girl of about eleven years of age entered the room. She had an air of her own consequence which marked her out all too well as her parents' child, but she was also clearly anxious. Sherlock walked over to her then took out his notebook and wrote something on it. 

“Miss Buckley”, he said gravely, “if you are honest with me we can limit ourselves to one question; I am sure that like myself you wish my visit here to be a short one. Answer it truthfully and I will endeavour to persuade Miss Brazen to be merciful, little though your actions merit any degree of clemency. Lie to me however, and I will equally endeavour to make sure that your next few months are decidedly interesting. My question is this. Yesterday a certain person told you to say that you had seen Miss Brazen's golden pince-nez in Miss Thackeray's bag. Is this the name of that person?”

He showed the notebook to the trembling girl who nodded but said nothing. Sherlock turned to her parents.

“Although her recent actions do not merit such consideration I shall leave it to your daughter's conscience – assuming that she has one - to inform you as to what heinous act she was involved in”, he said grimly. “If I am successful in bringing her co-conspirator to book I will keep my word and represent to Miss Brazen that Arabella played only a minor part in this shameful deed. Good day, sir, madam. _Miss Buckley.”_

He swept from the room and I hurried after him, although not before I heard the family we left behind fall to arguing.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I should comment at this point that while Sherlock always defended me against accusations that I was nothing more than a glorified biographer, I rarely felt that I ever really contributed to his solving of any of our cases together. This however was to be a rare exception as it was something that I said on our way back from Mayfair (inadvertently of course) which showed Sherlock how the theft had been carried out. 

We had discussed various aspects of the case, my friend annoyingly refusing to enlighten me as to the name he had shown young Miss Buckley, when he turned and asked me about whether I would publish this case (brushing over the schoolgirl's part, of course). After having a run of cases where I had not been able to share the details with the public for one reason or another, I said that I most probably would.

“Though I shall probably call it something idiotic like 'The Case Of The Case'”, I said with a smile. 

He looked at me in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“The tortoise-shell case that the pince-nez came with”, I explained. “Below it on the display plinth.”

He stared at me for a moment then shot to his feet – a dangerous exercise in a moving London cab – and rapped on the roof for the driver's attention.

“Driver, Fairleigh Academy!” he yelled. “As fast as you can!”

I stared at him in confusion. What on earth was going on?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Miss Brazen was surprised to see us back in her offices and so out of breath. Sherlock had raced in from the cab (leaving me to pay!) and I had had to run to catch him up.

“Miss Brazen”, Sherlock said recovering his breath, “earlier today I most foolishly forgot to put to you a key question as regards my investigation. Thanks to the good doctor here whose wits, unlike mine, were not away wool-gathering I was prompted on the way back from Miss Buckley's house. The pince-nez – _is the case that we saw on the plinth the same one that they came with?”_

She looked as confused as I felt at his question. 

“Yes”, she said. “Finest tortoise-shell. Now that you come to mention it, I thought it odd that it was the case that was left behind; both were only mounted on the plinth, and given how thin the gold is I would have thought that the case was worth as much if not more. Plus at least it serves an actual purpose.”

Sherlock heaved a sight of relief.

“Excellent!” he said. “I know the identity of the guilty party but proving it may have been problematical had it not been for that fact. We have a chance to catch them tomorrow morning, well before any parents start arriving at your school. Now here is what we have to do....”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

A few minutes past nine the following morning found Sherlock, myself, Mr. Kenwright, Miss Phelps and the four teachers all sat in Miss Thackeray's classroom. There was a feeling of expectancy in the air, and I noted that Miss Thackeray sat nearer to Sherlock rather than her fellow teachers. 

Miss Brazen sailed into the room at that moment and took Miss Thackeray's teacher's chair. She nodded to Sherlock (as if you have to ask about that simper!) and my friend stood up.

“Ladies and gentlemen”, he began with something that bordered dangerously on a smirk, “we are here today to find the person responsible for the theft of Miss Brazen's commemorative golden pince-nez. Certain indications in my early inquiries pointed me to one person in particular and by late yesterday I was certain that I was right. However the Metropolitan Police, quite unreasonably in my humble opinion, tend to demand rather more in the way of proof that 'Mr. Sherlock Holmes thinks'. So I laid a trap.”

“Acting on my advice, Miss Brazen told her secretary this morning that she was certain the identity of the thief could be easily proved by the use of finger-prints.”

“Stuff and nonsense”, Miss Vyne said acidly. “Anyone with the least amount of sense would have wiped the things.”

Sherlock turned to her and smiled.

“Indeed”, he said. “My own examination of the pince-nez had showed them to be clean of prints so I had thought no more of it – until my good friend Doctor Watson made a remark which showed me the error of my ways! The pince-nez themselves might be cleaned – _but the expensive presentation case below them which had been removed before the theft is made of soft tortoise-shell, which records finger prints to a most remarkable degree!”_

Someone drew a breath, although I did not see who it was. 

“Miss Brazen told her secretary that a friend of mine would be coming later this afternoon with some equipment which would be able to lift such a print”, Sherlock said. “I think that I can safely boast to be the only gentleman in London Town who has ever made the great Miss Brazen tell a lie. In informing her secretary of course she could be sure that the whole school would know sooner rather than later.”

Miss Phelps blushed. Sherlock turned to her.

“I almost wish that I had been wrong”, he said. “Miss Brazen?”

The headmistress opened her reticule and withdrew a small handkerchief which she passed to Sherlock. He placed it on the table in front of Miss Phelps and opened it out. There were some ugly brown marks in the corner.

“I also instructed Miss Brazen to send you here with the others, and then to use her keys to search your own desk for this”, he said gravely. “I felt it unlikely that you would come to a meeting such as this with an incriminating item on your person. Rubbing hard at tortoise-shell leaves an unmistakeable brown stain on a material as delicate as a lady's handkerchief, does it not?”

Miss Phelps stared at him in stony silence.

“Knowing what you do about the various girls' disciplinary records”, Sherlock went on, “it was easy for you to single out Arabella Buckley as the one most inclined to help you and to incriminate a teacher. It also helped that she was a pupil of Miss Vyne upon whom suspicion might be cast as a result. You disliked Miss Thackeray because she openly supported votes for women and your dislike only intensified when Miss Brazen chose to give her at least tacit support by allowing her to continue wearing her brooch. It was a vile and shameful thing that you did, madam.”

There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Kenwright who was standing by it went to open it. Two policemen entered. Miss Phelps stood up.

“I do not regret it one single jot!” she said stiffly. “A woman's place is in the home, and that is the way that it shall always be!”

She flounced out, the policemen following in her wake. Miss Brazen rapped the table drawing everyone's attention back to herself.

“Ladies and gentlemen”, she said firmly, “we still have parental visits to prepare for. We all owe Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson a vote of thanks for clearing all our names.”

“Actually the doctor and I are staying on for a few hours”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Miss Thackeray wants her classroom just right for the visits which start in” - he looked at his watch - “two and a quarter hours. Since she has missed a day we shall help her catch up.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Four hours later, we made it back to Baker Street. It had taken much effort to get Miss Thackeray's room to the standard she required and matters had not been helped when a small tube of gold glitter had erupted over me while I had been trying to improve a display. My co-workers' sniggering had not improved my mood, either.

I had noticed that Sherlock had brought something back from the school in a bag but thought little of it at the time and we ate our dinner in a comfortable silence until I mused that this was the second case since Sherlock's return with a scholastic flavour. He gave me an odd look then got up and told me to come to his room in five minutes' time. Naked. I gulped.

The bastard then only went and fucked me while he was wearing a mortar-board and a black cloak! I mean, how on earth was I going to be able to go into a classroom ever again?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Ten years on from the events described here and just a few days before our blessed retirement, one of the names from this case appeared in the 'Times' for the worst possible reasons. Miss Arabella Buckley had as one might have feared continued down her life of crime and had so disgraced herself that she had been disowned by her parents. She had attempted to murder them both before the process could be finalized but had been caught, and was dispatched to join Satan before the end of that year. Frankly the world was a better place without her.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
_† An underground gas explosion at the Albion Colliery in Cilfynydd just north of Pontypridd, the second-worst disaster in Welsh mining history as it claimed the lives of 290 men and boys, the youngest of whom was only thirteen. Poor safety practices were rightly identified as the main cause but despite all the evidence the mine manager was eventually fined just £10 (about £1,100 or $1,400 at 2020 prices). The mine is now closed._  
_‡ White or clear jewellery representing purity was used by the suffragist movement before green, white and violet (the colours associated with the slogan Give Women the Vote) became the colours more often associated with it._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	23. Case 200: Appointment in Samarra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. A momentous year is almost put to bed – but John nearly loses the man he loves again as the foul beast that is the slave trade, against which the British Empire has been striving so successfully, rears its ugly head once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as the case of the abominable Mr. Merridew.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

This dreadful case ranks as one of those I grouped as what someone once called my COMIs – Cases Of Middling Interest, those for which I had had some but not an excessive number of inquiries from Sherlock's many followers when I had mentioned it in passing. It was not included in the original sixty stories for an unusual reason in that it brought suffering to us both, albeit of a different sort, and almost uniquely caused me to lose my temper with the man I loved. And for one other reason which... I shall come to that later. 

We were unfortunately expecting another visitation from the unpleasant Mr. Randall Holmes, one of the few dark clouds in what were then my clear blue skies of happiness. Sherlock, the bastard, had suggested using the mortar-board on me again and this time with the paddle, and I had reminded him of what had happened when he had done that after the Pince-Nez case. My friend Sir Peter Greenwood had been hard put not to fall about with laughter when I told him that I feared I had ruptured something and he had innocently asked how. Fortunately some basic checks showed that, contrary to what was left of my mind was saying, everything was still in place. Except perhaps my dignity.

I was sure that I caught our landlady and Mr. Malone exchanging money just after. Honestly, was nothing sacred?

“No”, muttered someone who could really do with turning off the mind-reading thing once in a while. Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Randall Holmes's visit to Baker Street was tempered by the fact that he was accompanied by his brother Guilford who I supposed was marginally the lesser of the two evils. Very marginally. As I have said before he, like his older brother and their infinitely preferable if permanently wrecked cousin Mr. Garrick, worked for Her Majesty's Government but at least Mr. Guilford Holmes did not make frequent calls on Sherlock's talents and good nature in the blithe expectation (almost always correct) that they would be instantly met. It turned out that his lounge-lizard of a brother was indeed to make yet more demands on my friend, though not of the usual nature.

“Last year”, the pestilential lounge-lizard began, “I got Guilford here a post on the good ship 'Mercian' because I wanted him to go and investigate a small matter down in Rome. Naturally he demanded a free cruise back, and that was when he stumbled across a problem which is damnably delicate.”

I knew by 'delicate' our unwelcome guest meant 'politically explosive', though I was quietly pleased that it was not only Sherlock who got imposed upon in this way. I wondered idly whether a free trip was heading our way, before I realized that it might involve crossing the turbulent Bay of Biscay. Ugh!

“He then spent a couple of weeks at Gibraltar”, our visitor went on, “because the base commander found out that he could cook just as half his own staff had gone down with the winter flu and a major Admiralty inspection due the following week. Hence shortstack here was commandeered for a while.”

“Shortstack here may soon be telling mummy and daddy about someone's interesting collection of literature that he keeps under the floorboards in his old room at their house”, Mr. Guilford Holmes said in a sing-song voice. His older brother blushed then glared at me as I very pointedly muttered 'interesting literature stash, old room, floorboards' as I took notes. Because I was petty like that.

Yes, and proud of it!

“A young fellow, severely dehydrated, had collapsed at the base gates and had been brought into the hospital”, Mr. Randall Holmes went on, his face now very red. “He was diagnosed with a case of pseudo-leprosy which was presumably why they threw him off his ship - and that ship, gentlemen, was a slave ship!”

To say that we were both astonished would be an understatement. Her Majesty's Government had quite rightly outlawed the evil slave trade at the start of the century, abolishing slavery itself a few decades later. Ever since then the Royal Navy had been patrolling the world's oceans and gradually forcing the business ever back into the dark corners that it had emerged from, mostly the Mohammedan countries of Africa and the East. Even there the British influence was attacking it; the recent exchange with Germany of the island of Heligoland (scene of our adventure with 'the King of Scandinavia') for Zanzibar and Wituland in East Africa had been primarily to strengthen the attack on the evil business in the Indian Ocean by securing useful naval bases along the Dark Continent's east coast.

“Where did this poor man come from?” I asked. I was not prepared for the answer.

“Ireland”, the lounge-lizard said casually.

I stared in horror. A British slave?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr Randall Holmes placed a drawing on the desk. It showed a round-jawed Victorian businessman, balding but clearly very pleased with himself.

“Richard Merridew”, he said heavily. “Known also as 'Imperator Ricardus Quartus'. Slave-trader as we head towards the twentieth century. It is downright abominable!”

“Why do you not just arrest him?” I asked curiously. 

“It is something to do with where he takes the slaves, is it not?” Sherlock asked, giving the lounge-lizard the sort of look that said any snarky comment about my lack of knowledge should be kept to himself if he wanted this meeting to continue. 

His brother swallowed and nodded. I may or may not have smirked ever so slightly (a lot).

“Mr. Merridew has dual citizenship”, Mr. Randall Holmes explained. “The island of Samarra lies on its own a little way north of the Ionian Islands which we foolishly gave back to those ungrateful Greeks back in 'Sixty-Four. The place sits slap bang between the mess that is Italy on one side and the bigger mess that is the Ottoman Empire on the other. When this European war finally breaks out – and break out it will, mark my words – having a naval base there will be of great import especially if we end up fighting the Ottomans. And/or the Italians; it is still fifty-fifty at the moment as to which way they will break.”

“But the Ottomans are our allies”, I objected, “and we have spent the past century trying to save them from the Russian Bear!”

“Constantinople can be used to make many words, but gratitude is not amongst them”, Mr. Randall Holmes said primly. “The point is this. Mr. Merridew is making play with an old treaty between the island's king back in fifteen hundred and something and that useless lump Henry the Eighth. Basically it allows the King of Samarra – who these days is a vassal of the Ottoman Empire - to grant one licence a year to a merchant. The diplomatic immunity renders them untouchable even if they went and killed someone.”

I thought of something else.

“Surely if you were to stop this man, would not another licence be issued to someone else?” 

“Randy here thinks to stop him in such a way that would deter anyone else from trying”, Mr. Guilford Holmes said, smirking as his elder brother glared at the nickname. Then at me for mouthing it as I write it down. Yes, still petty.

And still proud of it.

“So you cannot touch the man directly without risking a diplomatic incident near a major trade route of ours”, Sherlock said, smiling at me slightly for some reason. “With a country that we do not – for now at least - wish to alienate. I see the problem. Just when was he granted his current licence?”

“They always run from the start of the year”, his brother answered, “so the rat will need to be back on Samarra by the end of the month. The licence only has any force if it is granted by the island's current ruler and in person.”

“How in blazes are they getting citizens of the Empire from under our noses?” I growled. “It is barbaric!”

“Merridew's ship the 'Imperator Ricardus Quartus' - _of course!_ \- sails from Liverpool”, Mr. Randall Holmes explained, “and calls in at Queenstown before sailing through the Straits to home. Stopping him while he is licensed would cause an international incident, and with the situation abroad as it is just now that is not something Great Britain is prepared to do.”

 _Especially as it is just Irish slaves_ , I thought cynically but did not say. My thoughts must however have shown in my face.

“If you have ever looked at a map of the Irish coast, _doctor_ ”, the lounge-lizard said acidly, “you will see that it is perforated with thousands of inlets and small bays. With the current demands on Her Majesty's fleet we cannot spare a ship to shadow the 'Imperator' on the off-chance that she slips into one, and even if we could we dare not risk stopping her unless we actually catch her in the act of taking people. The Sublime Porte† would be less than impressed.”

“When does the ship sail?” Sherlock asked.

“The tenth, a week today”, Mr. Randall Holmes answered. “That gets her to Oteria, the capital and only port of Samarra, on the twenty-sixth at the latest, so five days in hand; she is not that fast. Why?”

Sherlock grinned and turned to me.

“Doctor”, he said, “it looks like we may be travelling this festive season!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was surprised when Sherlock asked me if I could be free to travel north come the tenth, the very day that the 'Imperator' sailed, but I guessed that he must have had his reasons. Those quickly became apparent when we arrived in the docks of the Lancashire port city to find the ship not only still there but with a large gash running all the way down one side. 

“What happened?” I wondered.

“The 'City of Bath' collided with her as she left this morning”, he explained.

I looked at him in surprise. How could he know that?

“Randall paid off the other ship's captain”, he grinned. “The damage looks to be less than I had hoped but I have other plans ready.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We spent most of the afternoon questioning an assortment of dock labourers on the quayside most of whom were surly and uncooperative. The few that would talk were I noted handsomely remunerated for their time and courtesy but I did not see that Sherlock learned much and said as much after we had checked into a hotel for the night.

“I did not expect to learn much”, he said. “That was not the point of the exercise.”

“Then what was the point?” I asked a trifle irritably. It had snowed for much of the day and the weak fire in the tavern where we were drinking was doing little to make things better. Worse, our public setting meant that I could not hug the human heater sat next to me. I was freezing!

“I wished Mr. Merridew to become aware of my interest in his dealings”, he said. “Once he does, he will know for sure that the collision this morning was no accident and that the British government is endeavouring to prevent his return to renew his licence before the end of the month. He has been more than a little foolish to stay out this late in the season.”

“Then what?” I asked rubbing my hands together. 

“What would you do in his position?” he countered.

“Sail from somewhere a bit warmer, to start with!” I snipped.

He just looked at me. I sighed.

“Get home as quickly as possible”, I said. “Take a train – hire a special if I could afford it – to London then get across the Channel and head down to Italy to make the crossing to Samarra. The British government could do little once he is in a foreign country though they might get him at the sea-crossing to his homeland.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Mr. Merridew is smarter than that”, he said. “Trains crash – or can be crashed - and he will know for certain that a government which can send a ship hurtling into his is quite able to cause such an accident, particularly to a special where there are no innocent civilians except the unlucky crew. A rail removed by some 'vandal' and it is done, with no proof as to the culprits. No, he will take to the seas. There are three ships leaving Liverpool today or tomorrow that would serve him. The 'Redgauntlet' sails to Belfast and then across to Stavanger and the Baltic. That is a dangerous option however as he would not reach Lübeck until early on the twenty-sixth leaving him little more than five days to cross Europe from top to bottom. Possible with our modern railways but very risky; one delay would be his undoing and I am sure that Randall would ensure that there was more than one. Then there is the 'Wizard of Avalon' which calls in at Gibraltar en route to the Canary and Azore Islands. He would reach the Rock on the twenty-first giving him a clear ten days, enough for a land trip most of the way home or a straight sea journey by another vessel. A lot of options all told and it would be difficult to cover all of them. Finally there is the 'Isinglass' which sails tomorrow to Cherbourg but calls first at Glasgow, Belfast and Cork so does not reach France until the twenty-fifth. Not much nearer to his home than Lübeck for only one extra day in hand. It is my belief that he will choose the 'Wizard'.”

“So he will still make it home in time”, I said, disappointed. He smiled knowingly.

“Regretfully for Mr. Merridew all three captains are in Randall's pay”, he said. “Whichever route he takes, he _will_ encounter problems. I guarantee it!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It had been snowing lightly most of that day and it had not been quite cold enough for it to settle but that evening the temperature plummeted, and with the forecast for the days ahead it seemed as if we would indeed be in for a white Christmas. 

Sherlock had booked us into the Midland Railway Hotel whose rooms were fortunately somewhat warmer than their public areas. Even better we had adjoining rooms with a connecting door. Which I took full advantage of once the maid had gone by slipping through and into his bed. It always amazed me that while Sherlock's body was so much warmer than mine his feet were always icicle-cold and he insisted on rubbing them against mine. Honestly, the things I put up with for that man!

It also sometimes irked me the way he read my mind. I was dwelling lightly on the case when he managed to turn round in my grasp and face me, running his hand slowly over my chest.

“John”, he said quietly, “this slave-trading thing.....”

He stopped, looking oddly uncertain. I stared at him across the darkness of the bed, wonderingly.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Do you ever think of yourself like that?” he whispered so quietly that I could barely hear him. I looked at him in confusion.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Bound to me like a slave”, he said, looking almost ashamed. “I know I always take the lead and you seem to enjoy that, but I do wonder.....”

I kissed him lightly on the nose.

“Sherlock”, I said firmly, “I want you to take me. Right now.”

I followed up my request by running my hand up and down his rapidly-hardening cock, and he groaned. 

“John!”

“If you are not inside me in the next five minutes I am going straight back to my bed.”

It was an idle threat; he knew as well as I did that my bed would be ice-cold and that I would far rather spend the night with my own personal human heater, let alone with the man I loved more than life itself. But the look of ecstasy on his face as I got him hard was replaced by one of determination and he moved gracefully to between by legs, before starting to scissor me open. I sighed contentedly.

“l...I love you so mu.... much”, I said, stammering as he got a second finger in. “I know that you would never hurt me, not like some Roman lord and his slave. One word and you would stop no matter how far gone you were. I will always love you, Sherlock.”

He swallowed hard but carried on his ministrations and soon had me open and ready. He was being more gentle than usual and if possible I loved him even more for that. This beautiful mind in in an even more beautiful body loved me and I was the one who should have felt unworthy of that love. He was everything I could ever have wanted and far, far more.

He was finally inside me and gently teasing my prostate. I groaned in mock pain and glared at him for making me wait. He smiled teasingly at me in return and suddenly changed his angle of attack, combining it with stroking my cock with one hand and tweaking first one nipple and then the second with the other. I could not last long under such a sustained attack and I was coming in under a minute, letting out my relief in a guttural moan before clamping my walls down viciously on his cock and making him fill me with his seed. He quickly wiped us both down before collapsing down on top of me totally spent, and I hugged him close. My life. My soul. My Sherlock.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day Sherlock was proven right when we learned that the 'Wizard of Avalon', due to leave later that day, had acquired an additional passenger. We were on the quayside that day to watch from a safe distance as the abominable Mr. Richard Merridew – a pompous and almost rotund fellow dressed quite ridiculously in an expensive suit with an imperial purple sash - boarded his new ship (I was sure that it dipped slightly to one side with his embarkation!), then we waited some hours until it had sailed and was just a small dot on the horizon.

“So are we going to Gibraltar to put further pressure on him there?” I asked as we walked back to the station (I drew the line at another night in that hotel even with my own human heater). 

“We shall return to Baker Street and await developments”, he said. “I have a notion that this man is a cut above our average criminal. The ship has only one call to make before Gibraltar, Queenstown in Ireland where we solved the case of Mr. Charlie Peace.”

I nodded, remembering all that horrible seasickness back then.

“Plus of course we met your very own Doctor Jack Calderon!” Sherlock teased. “Who did say he might come to England one day.”

I shuddered at the prospect of that Lothario leering at my man. 

“If he does, you may end up investigating another murder”, I said not at all testily. “Let us focus on one problem at a time, please.”

“A good idea”, he agreed. “I would be certain that the man is still on board after the ship calls there. He is a slippery fish.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Just how slippery emerged when we received a telegraph from the captain of the 'Wizard of Avalon' the next day informing us that Mr. Richard Merridew was no longer a passenger aboard his ship. Mr. Randall Holmes came round barely an hour later and told us that the merchant had caught a train across Ireland to Westport where presumably he planned to intercept the 'Isinglass' on her way round the island. The lounge-lizard was furious.

“My superiors think that I am an idiot for being duped like this!” he growled. “Honestly Sher, I do not know why I brought you in on this case!”

From the sudden tension in the air I knew that Sherlock was angry. With good reason; he had always done everything he could for his family and even though they had helped him out during the turbulent events arising from 'Reichenbach' the ingratitude clearly stung. And to cap it all this ungrateful sot had used his hated nickname as well.

“We are clearly keeping you from Her Majesty's business, Randall”, he said coldly. “Good day.”

His brother seemed to belatedly realize that he had crossed a line. He looked up anxiously.

“Sherlock....”

“Good! Day!” Sherlock snapped, raising his newspaper to indicate that the meeting was at an end. 

His brother hesitated but left. I waited until he had gone before speaking.

“Useless lounge-lizard”, I muttered.

Sherlock chuckled.

“What is it?” I asked. He lowered his newspaper and looked at me.

“I was thinking that far too often I underestimate you”, he said softly. “Also that maybe you had the right idea about those man-traps!” 

He stood up suddenly.

“Would you be amenable to another train journey of some length?” he asked, sounding almost nervous that I might decline. As if that would happen!

“Abroad?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Not as such.”

I stared at him in confusion.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was December the sixteenth, a day which would prove fateful (and nearly fatal) in our relationship. A cab took us to Paddington where Sherlock purchased two first-class tickets for New Milford in Pembrokeshire. As per his instructions I had packed a small bag and my revolver. The day was bitterly cold again but the snow had not started to fall although the dark grey clouds suggested that any respite was only temporary. 

Our train rumbled across England then through the Severn Tunnel into Monmouthshire before finally entering Wales. Sherlock kept checking his watch and I asked why.

“I am expecting Mr. Merridew to arrive off the ferry from Waterford”, he said. 

“But he has gone to Westport, on the west coast”, I objected. He shook his head.

“You forget that his ships call regularly at Queenstown”, he said, “and therefore he would have agents there. It is my belief that one such disguised himself as his master and the two swapped coats there or at Cork, the former then ensuring that he was followed northwards before vanishing and reassuming his own identity. Fortunately our target would have just missed the connection given the time his ship arrived yesterday. Today's ferry between that port and New Milford‡ gets in less than half an hour after this train so we cannot afford to be late.”

The Great Western Railway lived up to its name however and our express reached the Pembrokeshire port station exactly on time. 

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “He still has days to run on that damn licence of his. We cannot arrest him.”

“I need to make sure that he is on the return express”, he said. “You will have to stay and monitor the platform, then once the train has left to send a telegram to Randall as to what has happened. If he alights between here and London I shall follow him and again let my brother know.”

I looked at him anxiously.

“Be careful”, I said. 

Alas! He was not.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The express was the penultimate train of the day this far into West Wales, and the local that followed it would have only gotten me as far as Carmarthen before trains ceased for the night, so after sending Sherlock's telegram I checked myself into a small local hotel. I spent an uncomfortable night tossing and turning worried lest my friend do something brave and/or stupid.

There were no messages waiting for me the following morning and I did not know whether that was good or bad. I had breakfast as early as I could, and the train seemed inordinately slow as I made my way back to the capital. I reached Paddington just after noon and was back in an almost empty 221B soon after. 

Not almost enough. There was a Holmes in residence but it was definitely the wrong one. Little wonder that Mrs. Hudson had looked so annoyed when I had seen her upon entering; she really needed to take these sort of opportunities for her pistol target practice. Mr. Randall Holmes looked even shiftier than usual, and my heart plummeted.

“Where is he?” I asked abruptly.

He looked even shiftier and I remembered that my own gun was still in my bag. Loaded. Waste not, want not.

“We have good news on the Merridew front”, he said cheerfully. “He took a train from Charing Cross this morning but it was derailed near Dartford. Apparently the driver ignored the red flags where they were replacing worn-out rails.” 

_(I would later learn that Sherlock had been right about our target not wanting to risk a special train but that his brother had got round that by having his agent go though the train before the last station and tell all the passengers that they would have to change there)._

“Is the rat dead?” I asked momentarily distracted.

“Injured, but he will survive”, my unwelcome guest smiled. “Though he will not be out of his hospital bed before New Year. I guarantee that.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Years of dealing with less than forthcoming patients had left me with a good sense of when I was being lied to or misled.

“Where. Is. Sherlock?” I demanded, glaring at him.

I had never doubted that in a straight fight Mr. Randall Holmes would have easily bested me. But right now I was getting increasingly angry at his lack of forthrightness. 

“Hospital”, the pest muttered.

“What?” I barked. “How?”

“One of Merridew's henchmen spotted him at Paddington”, the rat said, raising his hands as if in defence. “They attacked him and left him badly injured.”

I was now positively furious.

“This is all your fault!” I yelled. “That man does everything for you, and you let this happen!”

“I cannot babysit him”, the villain said defensively. “He is my brother, not my wife!”

“Which hospital?” I almost snarled. 

“St. Philip's”, he said. “He is fine; just a little bruised. He will be back today and he will just need rest for....”

His laconic attitude sapped something inside me. I snarled, leaped across the room and grabbed him by his lapels, thrusting him back against the hearth. He looked startled but did not fight back.

“I nearly lost him because of you!” I yelled. “Understand this, _vermin_. If anything ever happens to him because of you, I will hunt you down and kill you myself! Now get out!”

He looked genuinely shocked at my anger and twisted himself out of my grip before walking swiftly to the door. He hesitated as if about to say something but I gave him such a look that he thought better of it and left. Once he had gone I sank into Sherlock's chair and pulled his favourite blanket – one that the idiot had knitted himself – around me as I shook in a mixture of anger and relief.

Then the tears came.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I telegraphed the hospital asking if I could visit but they told me that Sherlock had recovered faster than they had expected and that they planned to discharge him before visiting hours started that evening (I took that as a good sign as it meant he was well enough to be his usual terrible patient self). Sure enough he arrived home in an ambulance not long after and two men carried him upstairs despite his protestations. I only knew of his arrival when Mrs. Hudson opened the door for them and they carried him inside. I gestured to his fireside chair and they gently placed him in it. I tipped them and they left us alone. 

The silence was positively painful.

“You are angry with me.”

I gripped my pencil so hard, it was surprising that it did not snap. 

“You did not take care of yourself!” I snapped. I regretted it the moment I spoke; he was in no shape to cope with a moody room-mate just now. 

“One of the men saw me at Cardiff where we all got out”, he admitted. “When he saw me again at Paddington, Mr. Merridew must have told them to make sure that I was stopped.”

“Your life nearly got stopped!” I growled. “Damnation Sherlock! What were you thinking?”

I looked up as I spoke, and winced at the pained look on his face. I was picking on an injured, defenceless human being, and should have been ashamed of myself. I got up and walked over to him, sitting in the opposite chair which I pulled forward so I could take his hands.

“I cannot afford to lose you again”, I said bitterly. “Not after just getting you back. The last three years were sheer purgatory!”

“Not just for you”, he muttered.

I looked up, surprised. He sighed unhappily.

“Have you any idea how hard it was to watch you suffer?” he asked. “I wanted so much to let you know that I was alive but I knew that doing so could endanger the man that I......”

He stopped, blushing. Unlike me he was usually fine with expressing himself, but at times of great stress had trouble with those things that rhyme with dealings and start with the sixth letter of the alphabet.

“What?” I pressed. He made to pull his hands out of my grip but I refused to let go.

“The man I admire above all others”, he said quietly. “The man I had to let think I was dead for three years even when I wanted to be back here with you every moment.” He looked up, his blue eyes bright in the firelight. “The man I love and could not live without. No matter what demands, no matter who makes them of me – never again!”

I swallowed. 

“No more going your own way”, I said, my voice shaking slightly. “You need someone to keep an eye on you at all times.”

“No I do not”, he said with his small, real smile. “I have you.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was Christmas Day. I got Sherlock a hand-knitted and frankly terrible jumper which I knew that he would love, even if I did have to look across at a set of dancing reindeer all through the holiday. He got me two presents and I blushed when I saw that the first was a set of handcuffs; it was going to be a very festive season indeed for some parts of me! Then I opened the second - and words failed me.

It was a pair of silver rings, one with a small emerald in it and the other a sparkling sapphire. I saw that both had the letters 'S' and 'J' entwined on them. I swallowed hard.

“Society may not yet be ready to recognize it”, Sherlock said softly, “but I wanted to make it official. I pledged my soul to you in Italy, and now I pledge my body. I am yours, for now and all time, John. 

I swallowed, then gently placed the ring on my finger, alongside the unofficial 'engagement' ring that he had given me back in Verona. It fitted perfectly.

“As I am yours”, I said softly. “Now and for all time.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Later that night I got to try out his other present, too. I do not remember much of Boxing Day that year. Or the rest of the year for that matter!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Despite his best (or worst) efforts Mr. Richard Merridew was not discharged from hospital until the second day of January the following year, whence he was immediately arrested. The 'Imperator Ricardus Quartus' had slipped out of Liverpool under the cover of darkness on the fifteenth of December but the repairs effected by the local shipyard failed for some reason and she had to return to port. Bare seconds after midnight on New Year's Day she was impounded. There was no more slave-trading in British waters.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† A term for the government of the Ottoman Empire, deriving from that fact that governmental announcements were originally made at a designated gateway or portal._   
_‡ Now Milford Haven._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	24. Interlude: Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894\. After his recent brush with death, Sherlock begins to think of the future. A future with John, and without danger.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

My recent beating at the hands of the vile Mr. Merridew's henchmen had left me bruised, but far worse was the pain that I knew my actions had caused the man I loved. We had been so happy in the months since my return from my 'death', then I had gone and risked all that without thinking. For someone supposed to be one of the most intelligent men in London Town I was such a fool at times.

As I recovered I began to think of the future, a future that had seemed impossible with the dark cloud of Moriarty and his family hanging over me. I had turned forty this year and John would soon be forty-three (or 'thirty-thirteen' as the mischievous Miss Thackeray called it!). I could envisage more years of our solving crimes and helping people, but I was beginning to feel that I also had to plan for what would come next. My fame, thanks totally to my friend's Herculean writing efforts, was by this time such that staying on in London would not have been practical so I started reflecting on which h parts of the country that we had visited had appealed to him the most. 

I myself had liked the walking and mostly empty lands around the Lancashire-Yorkshire border that we had encountered in our last case and had wondered if the closeness to Brontë Country might entice my friend, but he had said that he had found it too cold. For that reason and the sometimes sad memories attached to it he did not wish to return to his native Northumberland nor to nearby Galloway, which he had liked on the two occasions that we had been there. Somewhere more southerly therefore seemed indicated; I had noted his liking for the Sussex Downs during the case of the Blue Carbuncle so I might try to obtain another case in that area. 

There is a lot of nonsense, mostly written by people of a later generation, about how intolerant people in Victorian times were towards those who were deemed 'different'. While there is an element of truth in this, our recent case involving Mr. Benezet and Mr. Wallace showed that such relationships were accepted provided – we are talking a very large 'provided' - there was an element of discretion (something that the great Mr. Oscar Wilde was about to so forcibly demonstrate). I would no more wish to know what went on behind our friends' closed doors than they would wish to hear details of what went on behind my own, especially when I took advantage of my innate flexibility and showed John that taking him in front of the fire while jerking him off and playing with his nipples.... well, that was what gags were for, was it not?

Bless those Georgian builders who gave Glendower Mansion and the future 221B such thick walls!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


End file.
